


Bloodscales and Kingkiller, the Eggbearers. Alternatively; buddy dramedy around Alagaesia with dragons and eggs collecting various waifs and strays.

by BethTheHuman



Category: Eragon (2006), Inher, The Inheritance Cycle - Christopher Paolini
Genre: Arya and Murtagh are best friends, Dialogue Heavy, Dwarf Rider!, Eragon is not in it much, Multi, Murtagh and Thorn have complex PTSD, Murtagh centric, Slow Burn, Thorn and Firnen are also best friends, Very PTSD, lots of new characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:20:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 19,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29139912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BethTheHuman/pseuds/BethTheHuman
Summary: Yes. It is as the title suggests. This is eventual Murtagh/OFC/OFC with a possibility to become Murtagh/OFC/OFC/OMC. There are lots of new characters. I began this thinking 'Murtagh would much less grumpy if he got laid' and it grew into this. I have no idea on an update schedule, sorry.
Relationships: Arya Dröttningu/Eragon Shadeslayer, Eragon Shadeslayer & Saphira Brightscales, Fírnen/Saphira, Murtagh Morzansson & Arya, Murtagh Morzansson & Thorn (Inheritance Cycle), Murtagh Morzansson - Relationship, Murtagh Morzansson/Original Female Character, Murtagh Morzansson/Original Female Character/Original Female Character, Murtagh Morzansson/Original Male Character, OFC & OFC, OFC/OFC, OFC/OMC, OMC & OMC, and lots more
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	1. Part 1

> **Part 1**


	2. Arrivals on Arngor

Chapter 1, Arrivals on Arngor

Murtagh stood shoulder to shoulder with Arya on his right and Yaela the Spellcaster on his left. On Arya’s right, on the central steps of the newly built Hall of Colours, the first completed building in Eragon’s new dragon-sized city, stood his brother, and with him, Blödhgarm, holding Glaedr’s Eldunarí. Behind them, spread across the steps and forming a rough wedge, stood a silent crowd of around eighty people. Representatives of all six races of Alagaësia present, with elves unsurprisingly the most numerous, but more than a few humans, dwarves, werecats, Eldunarí-dragons and Urgals were among the crowd. Arngor’s population was a testament to Eragon’s public insistence on a variety of teachers for the new generation of Riders, inviting the most talented elven spellcasters, the most gifted dwarven smiths, the most knowledgeable human professors, and the most ferocious Urgal warriors to make their homes on the Arngor plateau alongside Eragon, Saphira, the liberated Eldunarí, and their werecat companions. Murtagh suspected Eragon sought to subvert what had previously been an elven-dominated order, though he only shared such thoughts with Thorn, his partner.

His brother, in his role as Head Rider, had insisted on formal clothing for the occasion, and so the three living Riders had donned matched black flying leathers, tooled from finest Nagra hide, trimmed at the wrists and neck with the colour of their respective dragons. Eragon had also commissioned jewelled belts for the three of them, modelled after the now-destroyed Belt of Beloth The Wise, skilfully leveraging his position as a favourite son of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum and confidante of the dwarf King Orik to acquire the finest black and white diamonds the dwarves could offer. In every way, bar the matching white rings Arya and Eragon wore, the three Riders were nearly identical in appearance. The rest of the crowd wore simple black, trimmed here and there with a leaf shaped brooch, a hammer necklace, or an animal bone charm. There, on the steps of the Hall of Colours, the crowd waited in silence for Eragon and Blodhgarm to finish weaving their sparkling enchantment of welcome for the four new arrivals below them, the first new pupils of the new Order. Murtagh was _supremely_ uncomfortable.

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. A fat bead of sweat rolled from his temple into his scant beard, and Murtagh shuddered slightly at the sliding contact. He pressed his eyes tightly shut, willing his heart to slow, breathing deeply, even as his head pounded like an over-tight drum. It would not do to have an attack in this place, surrounded by these people. Beside him, Arya threw him a sympathetic look. Preparation for the welcoming ceremony had been long, and she knew what his brother did not; the residual effects of the Mad King’s crude and agonising transformation and binding spells still affected him deeply, causing painful migraines and flashback episodes. He reflected sourly on his own transformation being the dark mirror of Eragon’s; his brother’s had been relatively painless and quick. By contrast, Murtagh had writhed in agony for weeks, torn apart over and over again, as Galbatorix brutally reshaped his body.

He started slightly as he felt Arya’s hand brush lightly against his arm; to the new arrivals it simply looked a gesture between friends, but he felt her soothing touch send warming magic into his body. The stabbing pain behind his eyes retreated slightly, and he smiled gratefully at the elf woman.

 _Perhaps you should see Blödhgarm again,_ Arya’s concern bled across their mental link. His appreciation withered as soon as it had appeared, leaving a sour taste in his mouth.

 _Perhaps I should, but I will not,_ Murtagh snarked back at her, feeling both cool pride and hot shame as Arya’s hurt reached him, quickly smothered with forced indifference. She retreated, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He studiously avoided looking at the new arrivals for whom Eragon had convened this official welcome, though they obviously knew who he was, even after his own partial elven transformation. He sighed anew and reached out for Thorn’s mind, delighting in his partner’s simple joy at flying with Fírnen.

Mirroring Murtagh, Thorn carried scars of his own from the Mad King, rendering him unpredictably aggressive and distrustful; Fírnen had likewise been reserved and unfriendly at their first meeting, when Arya had flown Fírnen into the frozen north to find Murtagh and his partner. However, the green dragon’s deeply caring nature eventually won out, and the former enemies had developed a close, therapeutic friendship over the three years Murtagh had resided at Arngor.

 _Rather like Arya and you, my love,_ Thorn’s baritone resounded in his mind; the pair were nearing the Hall of Colours, Thorn bearing a recently slaughtered carcass in his foreclaws.

 _For Saphira?_ Murtagh needed no confirmation, but asked anyway, only to be present in Thorn’s mind a moment longer.

 _Sister Brightscales is grumpy. Fírnen’s eggs are causing her pain._ Thorn’s voice rang in his head again, and Murtagh felt the tendril of Fírnen’s mind brush his in wordless regretful confirmation. Arya glanced sideways sharply at Murtagh at Fírnen’s unsolicited touch; having been raised among elves, the dragon was reticent to touch another’s mind without permission, even as Murtagh and Arya did so with each other. Welcoming her in, he opened his mind and Thorn’s fully to her and Fírnen, revelling in their musical depths. Eragon’s spell and the new arrivals were temporarily forgotten, and the world fell away.

 _It was never my intention to hurt Brightscales, Murtagh-vodhr._ Fírnen’s warm voice, usually so measured and calm, was rough and earnest, betraying the depth of feeling he had for the dragoness, for he adored her almost as much as he adored his own partner-of-heart-and-mind Arya. _We are learning, and the Old Ones can only tell us so much. Thorn is caring for her, for she has banned me from her presence._ Fírnen was despondent at hurting Saphira; Murtagh smothered an indulgent smile at the green dragon’s mournful expression.

 _Saphira will see you when she is ready, my prince. Until then, trust us all to provide her with every comfort. It is her first eggbearing, after all, and for all her ferociousness, she is still very young._ An amusing image of a heavily pregnant human woman rubbing her lower back appeared in Arya’s mind as she soothed her partner. _Saphira may be more like a two-legs than she is willing to admit._

 _Do not say such to Brightscales, my Queen!_ Fírnen pleaded, shocked, _For she will think I think so, and Brightscales is the most beautiful dragon, the most elegant, especially when she is carrying –_

 _We are all very, **very,** well aware of how attractive you find my sister, Fírnen. Please do not continue, for I do not wish to vomit up my breakfast on a hatchling. _Thorn drily cut Fírnen off mid-sentence, much to Murtagh and Arya’s shared private relief. Despite the brutal majesty of the three living dragons, such interactions reminded Murtagh how young they truly were. Saphira, for all her battle prowess, and Eragon, for all his magical knowledge, were going to be first time egg-parents. Even Arya, the oldest of them, had little experience with children, and even less with hatchlings, while Fírnen himself was only barely an adult dragon.

 _You’ll muddle through, I suppose._ Murtagh said wryly. _And if not, then Uncles Murtagh and Thorn will be on hand to discipline rowdy dragonets._ He considered something, then added, _Has Saphira decided whether she will give the eggs to the Order, or allow them to be wild?_

 _I have not decided such Murtagh._ Saphira’s disapproving voice cut through their four-way discussion, _And I would thank you not to hold such discussion about me._ She left as quickly as she had come, emanating peevish disapproval. Worse, Murtagh felt Eragon’s mind turn to the four of them, attention momentarily diverted from his spell.

 _Tactful._ Murtagh keenly felt his confused irritation, as well as the strain of communicating during his spellcasting, across the link. Arya and Fírnen immediately withdrew, whispering contritely to the Head Rider and Head Dragon.

 _Ooops._ Murtagh remarked to Thorn. His partner snorted in amusement.

 _I will not defend you to her, my love. She scares me far more than you do._ Thorn was smug. _I was not the one making unflattering comparisons of Brightscales, nor treating her as if she will break, nor asking personal questions of eggs she has not laid yet._ Murtagh felt a flaring heat along his throat as Thorn greeted Saphira with a gust of fire, then his whole body was engulfed in glowing warmth as Thorn wrapped himself carefully around Saphira’s distended stomach. Thorn withdrew from Murtagh’s mind, focusing on Saphira.

 _Thanks,_ Murtagh grumbled into the silence. There was nothing now to distract Murtagh from contemplating Arngor’s newest residents. The stabbing pain behind his eyes returned as he finally looked at the two figures and their two small dragons before him.

The two bonded pairs had arrived at Arngor with Arya and Fírnen a few days before, having accompanied a heavyset elven supply ship, the _Aella,_ along the Edda River as it looped through the still unknown Eastern lands. Their journey had been a leisurely one, due to both the slow speed of the ship and the dragons’ frequent excursions away from the river to familiarise themselves with the best hunting and fishing spots. Eragon had quickly decided that, unlike the previous Riders, who had kept massive herds of domesticated animals on Vroengard, the dragons would hunt for themselves, as all three adult dragons had done in the years since their hatchings.

The slightly larger of the two was red like Thorn, but while his partner’s scales were the blistering red of rubies and rich wine, this dragon was a darker red, the colour of drying blood. He was tall, perhaps even a little gangly, but his thickset shoulders promised incredible combat strength once he filled out. Murtagh surmised this dragon would resemble Thorn, who was stocky and powerful. His Rider was a dark-haired male elf, wearing simple flying leathers; there was nothing remarkable about him, other than the usual elven beauty. Both were staring at Murtagh, eyes alight with something like fury.

 _Understandably so._ Murtagh smiled bitterly to himself as he looked at the second pair.

The other dragon was a female, and her colour was that of the finest silvery-white pearls. She was sinuously lithe and muscular, built more for speed and acrobatics than combat; Murtagh could see a resemblance between her and Saphira when they had first met. Her Rider was a slender human woman, though Murtagh could not determine her age. She was tanned, with broad cheekbones, full lips and heavy lidded, dark eyes, and thick auburn hair she had braided in a circle around her head. Like the elf, wore only simple flying leathers, with no local amulets to hint at her hometown.

 _A man could drown in those eyes,_ Murtagh mused, and the nameless Rider visibly tensed under his gaze as he considered her. Murtagh pushed down a sudden stabbing desire for Nasuada, no doubt brought on by the new Rider’s passing resemblance to Alagaësia’s new High Queen, and reached for Arya’s hand to steady to himself even as he averted his eyes from the silver dragon and her dark Rider. Arya channelled warming magic into his hand, sensing his change of mood.

Both new Riders had spent a little time with the Head Rider on the day of their arrival, developing personalised curricula, as well as picking their rooms and unpacking, while their dragons did the same with Fírnen, Glaedr and a very frustrated Saphira. Thorn had elected to stay away from assessing the capabilities of the new arrivals, to Murtagh’s silent relief _._ He wasn’t sure exactly what he and Thorn were supposed to _do_ here, but Eragon insisted on them staying. In front of Murtagh, his brother was beginning his welcome speech.

“Saphira cannot be with us today to greet you, though she sends you her warmest regards. As you were no doubt made aware yesterday, her eggbearing is taking more of a toll on her than we anticipated. Therefore, in her stead as Head Dragon, Fírnen and Glaedr will be conducting their welcome.” He motioned to the large golden Eldunarí on a cushioned pedestal to his right, and at Fírnen circling overhead. “Furthermore, while Thorn Blödskular and Rider Murtagh have chosen not to be involved in your education, as is their prerogative, both are still _ebrithilar_ at this academy and will be accorded with the same respect as any of your other teachers.” The new arrivals shifted, exchanging heated glances and shooting venomous looks at the Red Rider.

At the same time, Murtagh’s head whipped round to stare at Eragon, his eyes boring into the back of his younger brother’s head. Projecting all his confusion into a thought, he pressed against Eragon’s mind. _What are you doing, Eragon?_

 _You are my brother and I love you. I love Thorn too. I will not have you disrespected in this academy, especially when you have worked so hard to help me build it._ His brother’s tone was defiant, proud, but a little unsure; he paused and added, _Murtagh, what you did to Oromis was not your fault, and I know you bear more scars from it than you have told me. You must heal here, with us, if you are ever going to face Alagaësia again._ He abruptly pushed Murtagh out of his mind, inclining his head in welcome to the new arrivals.

“Finally, Gladhrion and Tarhys, Vyndea and Savarane, it is my pleasure to welcome the four of you to Arngor. Please, enter, and be welcome!” Glaedr repeated the formal greeting as the gathered crowd erupted in cheers, while Fírnen let loose a jet of flame above their heads, wheeling joyfully in the empty blue sky.


	3. A Library and a Vow

Chapter 2, A Library and a Vow

As soon as he was able, Murtagh slipped away from the crowd clustered around the young dragons and their Riders. Away he went, into the twisting corridors of Eragon’s half grown fortress, to his favourite place within it, the library. Murtagh felt his breathing slow as he adjusted to the tranquil atmosphere. Ahead of him, erisdar lanterns flared brighter in response to his presence, while the spelled blackboard to his left displayed his most recent reading choices.

 _“Aurboda,”_ The list disappeared. Murtagh made his way through the shelves, to a private reading nook, outfitted with a curved bench and low table. His private reading area, or so he liked to think of it. He spoke again, this time to the library itself. _“Myntu chai un hunang.”_ A small clay cup of steaming mint tea appeared on his table, sweetened with honey. He had to admit, Eragon had some innovative ideas for his city. Magic drinks in the library was one of them.

Out of habit, he brushed up against Thorn’s mind, only to find him napping in an afternoon sunbeam. He probed further, confirming Saphira was also dozing, with her head resting on Thorn’s foreleg.

 _They’re curled up like particularly shiny cats,_ Eragon’s mind-voice was quiet, but thrummed with fierce pride.

 _Does Saphira know you call her a cat when she sleeps?_ Murtagh asked, sipping his tea and smirking.

 _One of Saphira’s best friends is a werecat; she would think it a compliment._ Eragon’s tone was defensive, but still playful.

 _Sure. Are the newcomers settled in now?_ There was hesitation from his brother. _Eragon…_

 _Not… exactly._ Eragon’s tone was resigned. For the second time that day, Murtagh was left with a sour taste in his mouth.

 _Show me._ Murtagh’s tone brooked no argument, and with a mental sigh Eragon allowed his brother into his mind, which was joined with Blodhgarm’s. He silently acknowledged the Red Rider, inviting him to view the memory with Eragon.

They watched as the elf, Gladhrion, strode up to a deceptively calm Arya, his face contorted, and his fists balled. It was the closest Murtagh had ever seen any elf come to uncontrolled rage. Their dragons had adopted mirrored positions, with the ruddy Tarhys craning his neck up to Fírnen, teeth bared in a hissing snarl. Fírnen was over twice the size of the new dragon and was studiously indifferent to the younger dragon, though his tail curled protectively around his Rider, belying his irritation with the shrike. The silver dragon and her Rider were nowhere to be seen. No spoken words passed between the two elves, though Murtagh knew Arya well enough to know she was speaking to Gladhrion mentally. The memory faded, and Murtagh became aware of his surroundings again, though Blodhgarm and Eragon’s minds were still open to him.

 _They resent our presence, I take it?_ It was not truly a question. Murtagh had expected such a reaction from one pair or the other, though he was surprised it was this soon.

 _They do._ Fírnen’s musical voice joined Eragon’s in Murtagh’s mind. _They think you should be tried by the Elven Council for the murders of Oromis and Glaedr. They will not accept Arya’s explanation you were not in control of your actions, and think because you are Morzan’s son, and Thorn’s lineage is unknown, that you do not deserve to be here._ There was more to it than what Fírnen was relaying to the three of them, Murtagh was sure of it. _Arya is dealing with them._ Fírnen added, sensing the Red Rider’s rising anger.

Allowing his irritation with the emerald dragon to bleed across their link, he asked, _Anything else? Perhaps they want Thorn to wear a muzzle like an untrained mongrel? Have his claws filed down? His spikes pulled out?_ Sick horror emanated from Fírnen at the thought of maiming Thorn in such a manner, but Murtagh pressed on, his mental voice growing more hysterical as he did so. _Perhaps he should have his wings chained and his fire glands removed so he is no threat? Perhaps Tarhys would like to follow Glaedr’s example and bite off half –_ Murtagh gripped his cup tighter and tighter, hissing suddenly as it crunched inwards into his palm. His concentration fled as the sharp pain of the shards of pottery embedded themselves deeply in his palm and hot tea spilled over his fingers onto his trousers. The last thing he felt across the link with Eragon was his mental shout of alarm at the stabbing pain before he severed the connection completely. At the same time, he felt Thorn startle awake with a snarl at the sudden lancing pain, throwing himself into the air as Saphira roared her confusion and displeasure at him.

 _“Waíse heill,”_ Murtagh forced out between gritted teeth, picking the jagged shards out of his palm as the cuts slowly closed. The steaming tea evaporated into the air; Murtagh was glad he had not chosen a spiced blend as he experimentally flexed his hand and winced at the sting of new skin stretching.

 _Murtagh, my love, what happened?! Tell me who and I will tear the limb from limb!_ Thorn’s bass snarl reverbed in Murtagh’s head.

 _I cut myself on a broken cup._ He projected an image of his bloody hand to the irate dragon. _Nothing to worry about, I’m sorry I woke you and Saphira. It took me by surprise._

 _A simple thing, then._ Thorn was crestfallen; Murtagh grinned then, feeling his heart swell in response to Thorn’s protectiveness. Murtagh was already up and moving to the exit to meet his partner.

 _Still, I am glad you leaped to my defence. That cup didn’t stand a chance against such a fierce and terrifying opponent._ Thorn projected an image to Murtagh of himself at his most vicious, staring down at a small cup. _Truly the most ferocious, my love. Shall I meet you outside the Hall? We could go flying? I don’t think you could go back to Saphira after you woke her so rudely._

 _No, Brightscales is somewhat angry at me._ Thorn did the dragon equivalent of a guilty wince and indeed, Murtagh had heard Saphira’s bone rattling roar of displeasure a moment previously.

 _Somewhat, yes._ He paused outside the library as the Hall came alive around him, buzzing with concerned voices and magic as people rushed towards Saphira’s nesting grotto. More disgruntled roars followed, and the sound of people retreating hastily.

 _Is egg laying painful for female dragons?_ Murtagh wondered idly to Thorn as he made his way to meet the red dragon. _Get my flying cloak from my room?_

 _I already have it, for I knew you would ask, my love._ Thorn sent Murtagh an image of a heavy cloak, lined with fur, dangling from one claw. _From what the Old Ones have told us, it can be, especially for a first-time dam. I think it is the creation and gestation of the eggs that is more painful, however. It is certainly nothing like two-leg pregnancies with the dangers they pose to females, human ones especially._

 _You think?_ Murtagh was sceptical.

 _The Eldunarí can only tell us so much, and telling is rather different to experiencing, I think. I also think Saphira keeps some information from Fírnen and I, as we are not female._ Thorn sniffed. _There is one dam-Eldunarí who speaks to Brightscales and Eragon every day._

 _Interesting. I’m nearly at the entrance._ As intriguing as dragon reproduction was, Murtagh was thoroughly bored of hearing about Saphira’s eggs and wished she would just clutch, if only to ease the constant tension on the mountain.

“Murtagh!” Arya’s shout reached him as he threw a whisper of magic to open the great doors that lead to the dragons’ square landing area.

 _Hells._ He sighed heavily and turned to face the elf Queen.

“Yes, Arya?”

“You saw.”

Murtagh shrugged dispiritedly. “I’m not surprised. Thorn and I are going flying; join us?” Arya’s head tilted slightly, as it always did when she spoke with Fírnen, followed by a sharp nod. The twin sounds of dragons crashing to earth outside the Hall reached their ears half a second later.

“After you, my lady Dröttning,” Murtagh bowed extravagantly to the dark-haired woman, who merely rolled her eyes as she passed him. She greeted both dragons with chin scratches, Thorn first, then Fírnen, and the ground shook under Murtagh’s feet at their bass purring.

Once the four of them had ascended to a comfortable height where Thorn and Fírnen could coast on currents of warm air, Arya cast a spell that would allow her to converse with Murtagh. Warm air enveloped the Red Rider, insulating him completely from the freezing air above the cloud layer.

“Thank you, Arya.” Murtagh unfastened the tight collar of his fur trimmed flying cloak, pausing for breath as the other Rider eyed him intently. “So what can be done about Gladhrion?”

 _Straight to the point, Murtagh-vor._ Fírnen snorted at him.

“Well, I – Murtagh, you know Fírnen and I, and Eragon and Saphira, we all support you. You should be with us,” Despite Arya’s spell, a chill dread clutched at Murtagh’s heart. “But Gladhrion, and Tarhys, they are young, and they are _angry._ They are of the traditional wing of the court, that elves make the superior Riders, and the eggs kept by Galbatorix were deceived somehow –“

“So, nothing we haven’t heard before. I don’t deserve to be a Rider,” Murtagh’s tone was dull and resigned, his anger at the traditionalist elves having long since burned itself out, “And by ‘eggs’, they of course mean, _just_ Thorn. I doubt they level the same criticism at Brightscales or the Green Prince.” Below him, Thorn huffed his sarcastic agreement.

“Yes, they share views others have expressed to you before, Murtagh, but,” Arya was hesitating, practically vibrating with worry atop Fírnen, “they have gone … further than that.”

“What could they possibly do to go further?”

“They have invoked a – there is no direct word – a _blödhfyrn eïnradhin_ , against the two of you.”

“And a _blödhfyrn eïnradhin_ is?” Murtagh had a very good idea what a _blödhfyrn eïnradhin_ was.

 _The closest translation is ‘blood oath war’, Murtagh-vor. I know humans use the term blood feud, and this is what a blödhfyrn eïnradhin_ _is. Gladhrion and Tarhys have vowed themselves your enemies, now and forever._

The familiar feeling of preparing for war coiled in his gut, hot and rancid, and Murtagh felt a perplexing relief overtake him. This was what he was meant to do.

“Does Eragon know?” He muttered pointedly. Arya flinched minutely at the question, marring her otherwise perfect countenance.

“Murtagh –”

“Does he _know,_ Arya?”

“He … does not. Not yet. We wished to tell you first, as it pertains to you, and Gladhrion’s threat was made as my subject, not Eragon’s student.” Arya smoothed a hand over her face, rubbing small circles into her temples. The look of pained confusion at Murtagh’s question melted away, and she was once again aloof and expressionless. Murtagh knew their flight was soon at an end.

“I suppose we should go and talk to the Head Rider then,” Murtagh was resigned to another unpleasant conversation with his brother and Saphira. Under him, Thorn’s right shoulder dipped, banking shallowly through the cloud layer as he turned back to the flattop mountain of Arngor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Myntu chai un hunang; Mint tea and honey. 
> 
> Waíse heill: Be healed, healed. 
> 
> Dröttning: Queen, Ruler. 
> 
> Blödhfyrn eïnradhin: Literally, blood-oath-war, translated to blood feud.


	4. Gathering In The Grove

Chapter 3, Gathering in the Grove

“Eragon,” Murtagh clasped forearms with his younger brother, who was sitting cross legged by Saphira’s head, a book casually held open on his lap. His fair sandy hair, grown long in the time they had spent in seclusion constructing the Hall of Colours, escaped its leather strap and lifted in the breeze, turning a dull gold in the final light of a glorious sunset. Mindful of Saphira’s discomfort, Murtagh projected a respectful greeting to Saphira, rather than attempting the customary chin scratching Fírnen received. The once boisterously energetic dragon now rested heavily next to her Rider, eyes half lidded against the dying sunlight, her discomfort palpable even as she shifted to better accommodate the clutch of eggs inside her.

“Brother, Thorn Blodskular.”

Murtagh and Thorn mirrored Eragon and Saphira, minus the book, as they settled down on the other side of Saphira’s grove. Despite Eragon’s aborted attempts to engage them in conversation, neither would be drawn. Murtagh avoided staring at his brother; despite being the fairest human he knew, Eragon’s elf-like face still disquieted him deeply. The problem was not truly with Eragon, but Murtagh was uncomfortably reminded that his own face was now not his own every time he met his brother’s eyes. Arya remained standing, drumming her fingers against her flying leathers restlessly. Eragon, sensing Murtagh’s reticence, turned to his paramour.

“Arya. Fírnen is joining us soon, I presume?”

Arya inclined her head in the affirmative. “He is fetching Brightscales a meal from the forest, Eragon. He will not be long. In the meantime, I would like to contact Blödhgarm and Glaedr to join us.” Her eyes flickered to Murtagh, who merely shrugged in resignation.

“Had to happen.” Eragon’s eyebrows rose slightly at Murtagh’s cryptic statement; to involve Glaedr in a discussion with Thorn was unusual for Arya. Even after the younger dragon had apologised for his part in Oromis’ death, Arya and Eragon still took pains to keep them apart, out of regard for Glaedr’s feelings.

“It must be important.” His face smoothed, and his eyes lost their sharpness momentarily as he called to golden dragon and his companion. “They are on their way.” Soon enough, the dull thudding of wingbeats reverberated around the clearing Saphira had selected, swiftly followed by the bone rattling crunch as the green dragon landed on the loose slope outside the rough circling of trees. Tree trunks groaned and snapped at Fírnen’s intrusion; guiltily, Murtagh realised he and Thorn were sat in front of the only direct entrance to Saphira’s clearing.

 _Now there’s two ways in, I suppose,_ Murtagh mused to Thorn. The ruby dragon snorted and rolled his eyes.

Fírnen reached them, shaking cracked bark from his scintillating hide and spreading his wings to inspect for punctures. Satisfied at finding none, Fírnen proffered the dead buck he carried to the dragoness, then curled up around Arya, tucking his tail under his chin as she laid back against his ribs. Outside of the grove, Blödhgarm approached, bearing Glaedr’s Eldunarí, his movements quick and sure over the loose slope.

“Welcome, Blödhgarm. There is space to pass around Thorn’s left side.” Eragon said. The dark-furred elf appeared, while Glaedr’s Eldunarí pulsed with a warm glow.

“Greetings, Shadeslayer, Brightscales. Greetings, Arya Dröttning, Green Prince. Greetings Murtagh Morzansson, Thorn Blodskular,” Blödhgarm’s voice was velvety smooth.

“Please Blödhgarm, sit.” Arya pointed, and where they had been a moderately sized boulder, there was now a cushion, large enough to accommodate the elf and the Eldunarí comfortably.

As Eragon lifted his hand to cast a spell, they heard another voice. “My dears, I hope you weren’t going to start without us?” Angela sauntered around Thorn, followed as usual by Solembum.

“Angela svit-kona, Solembum, please, join us,” Blödhgarm graciously extended a hand, magically expanding the cushion. The herbalist sat and produced some knitting needles from somewhere on her person, looking for all the world like she was waiting for tea to brew. Solembum followed, curling up with a contented purr next to the glowing warmth of Glaedr’s Eldunarí.

“Are we waiting for anyone else to join us? Orik, perhaps?” Eragon’s tone belied his amusement.

 _No, Rider, you may cast your spell._ Solembum raised his head broadcast to them all, then returned to his nap position, tail over his noise. Murtagh’s lip quirked at the sight of the cat draped over the Eldunarí, trying to picture Solembum doing the same to a bodied Glaedr.

 _You are lucky that I tolerate you, little kitten._ Glaedr rumbled to the offending werecat. The werecat merely offered the Eldunarí a lazy wink in response. Eragon cast a spell of privacy over the gathering, muffling the sounds of forest life as if he had set a dome over them, and then spun a few floating orbs of yellow light between his palms, which he sent up to circle above their heads.

“ _Now,_ can we begin?” Eragon’ voice was plaintive, and Saphira hissed her agreement around the deer leg she had been delicately nibbling on.

“Yes.” Arya rose to her feet, her face pensive as she considered her next words. “As you all know, during the Rider War, when Murtagh Morzansson and Thorn were under the Mad King’s control, they committed a grievous act; they killed the last Rider of old, Oromis, and forced Glaedr into his Eldunarí.” Thorn hissed at Arya, thin trickles of smoke rising from his nostrils, before Murtagh smoothed a hand down his leg to calm him, even as his own heart was racing. Across the clearing, Glaedr’s Eldunarí, which had been alight with golden warmth, had now turned to a deep, flickering orange. Glaedr was an angry as Murtagh and Thorn were. Arya met the Red Rider’s gaze, silently pleading for patience. Eragon and Saphira, meanwhile, were both taught as bowstrings, while Angela had ceased her knitting and Blödhgarm stared inscrutably at the Queen. Only Solembum was unbothered by the suddenly tense atmosphere.

“I do not bring this up to cause you further pain, _ebrithil_ Glaedr. Nor do I wish to blame you, Murtagh-vodhr, and Thorn Blodskular, for the acts you were forced to carry out by Galbatorix.” Arya held out her hands in a placating gesture. “I merely wish to illustrate the importance of this meeting.”

 _Carry on, Dröttning._ Glaedr’s voice met their minds, and his use of Arya’s title, rather than her name, indicated his roiling anger at the elf Queen.

 _Yes, ebrithil._ Arya bowed her head to the Eldunarí.

“Before coming here, I, along with several elven spellcasters, put the new Riders and their dragons through _tuatha du orothrim,_ before bringing them here. During this time, Gladhrion expressed his dismay at not learning from Oromis and Glaedr; I considered this natural, as the loss of Oromis was deeply grieved by everyone in our nation, and it was known Glaedr had elected to travel with Eragon and Saphira out of Alagaësia to found a new Rider Academy. Tarhys was still very young, of course, and his sentiments, quite naturally I thought, echoed Gladhrion’s.” Arya paused to look around, making eye contact with everyone present. Eragon’s brow was furrowed in mild confusion, his mouth half open.

“Arya. Is there another problem with Gladhrion and Tarhys, beyond what I saw earlier?” The Head Rider spoke slowly, puzzling through what she had said. 

“Yes Eragon, there is,” Arya sighed. “Gladhrion has expressed his anger at Murtagh’s presence here on Arngor. As I’m sure you will remember from before your transformation at the Agaeti Blödhren, there are some elves who find the idea of a human Rider, shall we say … distasteful. The fact Murtagh is Morzan’s son, and Thorn’s lineage unknown, lead Gladhrion to assert that Thorn was somehow twisted by Galbatorix’s magics into hatching for Murtagh, as he forced Shruikan to his will.” This at least, Murtagh had heard before. Arya continued, “Gladhrion also fully blames Murtagh and Thorn for the death of Oromis and the disembodiment of Glaedr; in short, they refuse to believe Murtagh and Thorn were compelled against their will to conduct that killing.” Arya’s fingers thrummed a tense rhythm on her flying leathers, belying her anxiety.

“As distasteful as the accusation is, this is not new to us. We always knew some elves may act this way towards Murtagh-vodhr and Thorn Blödhskular,” Blödhgarm spoke quietly, furred face tilted up to the Queen. Eragon nodded in agreement, his brow still furrowed in confusion. Only Angela remained silent, as Glaedr, Saphira and Solembum added their mental affirmations.

“Yes, Blödhgarm, you are of course correct. We always knew this was a possibility if the new Riders were elven. However, Gladhrion and Tarhys, well, they have … gone further than this.”

 _Here we go,_ Murtagh muttered morosely to Thorn.

“Further?” Eragon’s voice was low, suspicious. Arya sighed deeply.

“Gladhrion has invoked the _blödhfyrn eïnradhin_ against Murtagh and Thorn.” Arya’s statement was blunt, but the implications were clearly shocking. Angela froze, blood draining from her face; Solembum had given up all pretence of napping and was watching with wide eyes. Blödhgarm’s wolfish black lips had drawn back in a vicious snarl, while Glaedr’s Eldunarí was now throbbing with angry carnelian light. Fírnen’s tail, previously still, twitched anxiously in the air. To Murtagh, it comically reminded him of a mummery he had seen in Uru’baen, wherein a lord revealed he had poisoned everyone’s food at a banquet as revenge for an imagined slight. Only Eragon and Saphira remained unaware.

“What is a, a _blödhfyrn eïnradhin?”_ Eragon’s tone was cautious. “It sounds, well, it doesn’t sound _pleasant._ And guessing by the reactions, it isn’t?”

“Shadeslayer.” It was Blödhgarm. “Were you once the subject of a blood feud with Dûrgrimst Az Sweldn rak Anhûin?”

“Yes, Blödhgarm. They sent assassins after me, and ambushed me under Tronjheim,” Eragon grimaced at the unwelcome recollection, “They killed one of my guards that day. They were banished for it.”

“Declaring _blödhfyrn eïnradhin_ is like the ring that clan threw when you first met them in Tarnag. No elf has, to my knowledge, declared one for over five hundred years.” Blödhgarm’s voice was a horrified whisper. Eragon suddenly understood the importance of Blödhgarm’s information.

“Wait. Why would you not tell me this before now, Arya? I will not have my brother in danger in my own Academy, not after he helped me build it!” The Head Rider was suddenly furious.

“Gladhrion only formally invoked _blödhfyrn_ today, Eragon. To further complicate matters, he did so as mine own subject, not your pupil. As Queen, I cannot ignore it.” She sagged against Fírnen’s leg momentarily, pressed her forehead against Fírnen’s as he raised his massive head to hers. Regaining her composure, she shook her inky curls out of her face, tucking them behind her ears, waving away Eragon’s concern at her loss of composure airily.

Sensing dwelling on the subject would only irritate Arya, Eragon asked, “What should be done about this _blödfyrn_?” Glaedr’s Eldunarí pulsed, as it did when the dragon was thinking deeply.

_This is a serious matter, hatchlings._

Saphira snorted, raising her head as she cracked a final deer bone into her cheek. _You always did have a gift for understatement, Master._ Her tone was irreverent, but affectionate, and Glaedr’s Eldunarí shone with warm rose light in response; he was amused.

 _Always so impertinent, Brightscales! No matter, it is you who flies and I who does not; my time inside this gem has mellowed me._ The golden dragon’s warm mirth, directed at his former student, turned serious.

 _Leaving aside that Gladhrion has invoked a blödhfyrn without my consent --_ for the dragon to note such a detail, it must be important; Murtagh stowed the information away for later consideration – _the accusation itself is not without merit. Some elves doubtless think Eragon was too lenient in allowing Murtagh-vodhr and Thorn Blodskular into this new Academy._ Eragon opened his mouth to speak, hand raised in objection, but the golden dragon continued.

_I do not agree with that thinking_. _I have considered this, many times since our arrival to Arngor, and discussed it with the other Eldunarí. I do not, I cannot, forgive Murtagh and Thorn for the part they played in Oromis’ death, and my disembodiment._ Murtagh flinched minutely at this.

 _No, you misunderstand me Murtagh-vodhr. I cannot forgive you, but I do not blame you. It was not you that struck the killing blow, after all, it was the Mad King, who used you. I know that the both of you too, carry scars of your own from this._ Murtagh could only stare at the Eldunarí. Thorn too had fixed the gem with a flat stare, his thoughts a roiling tangle Murtagh could not begin to discern.

“I – thank you, _ebrithil,”_ Murtagh was stunned at Glaedr’s acceptance, even as he sensed the raw pain beneath the dragon’s words. “A weight has been lifted from us. Thank you.” The words felt clumsy in Murtagh’s mouth, yet he could say nothing else. Instead, he bowed awkwardly from his seated position, flexing his hand over his sternum in a rough approximation of the elven gesture

Glaedr’s voice thrummed with pain as he replied. _It has taken me many years to reach this point, Murtagh-vodhr. From Oromis, I learned what it is to be powerless in one’s own body. From Oromis too I learned the not-dragon attribute of forgiveness, of caring for one’s enemies. You were right, when you fought us, that we did not do enough to help you. We and all the elves, and it was to our great detriment that we did not._ This was the most Glaedr had spoken to the Red Rider and his dragon in years; Murtagh’s mouth just hung open, and somewhere in his mind he observed he probably looked like a gaping fish.

 _Yes, you do, my love._ It was Thorn, his voice brimming with emotion. If he were human, Murtagh would have said he was close to crying. Murtagh pressed his face into Thorn’s neck, not trusting himself to speak. Thankfully, no one tried to speak to him, and after a moment he regained his composure.

“What is to be done about this feud then?” Eragon’s concerned voice broke the sharp silence that had settled over the grove at Glaedr’s admission. “Are Murtagh and Thorn in danger here?”

“Were you in danger when you were near Dûrgrimst Az Sweldn rak Anhûin?” Blödhgarm’s voice was as smooth and dark as his night black fur.

“Yes.” The answer, when it came, was grudging and quiet.

“Then, Shadeslayer, you have your answer.” Blödhgarm’s heavy pronouncement settled over the gathering.

“I suppose we must leave then,” Murtagh was resigned. “We can return when Gladhrion and Tarhys’ training has been completed.” He stood to leave, dusting off his legs and already mentally preparing a list for rough living.

“If I may make a suggestion, my dears?” Angela, silent apart from the clicking of her knitting needles, spoke suddenly.

_Please do, Angela svit-kona._

“My thanks, Glaedr. Now, I was thinking; as much as we would like to ignore this and hope the Hall will remain peaceful, we cannot. This pair presents a threat to Murtagh and Thorn, and by extension, everyone here. Of course, Murtagh and Thorn present a much greater threat to this pair, but I think we can agree that having Thorn kill another dragon and Rider would not be a desirable outcome, hmm?” Thorn snorted, though whether it was in amusement or anger, Murtagh couldn’t tell.

“I think I speak for Shadeslayer and the Queen when I say that yes, we would like to avoid that,” Blödhgarm purred at the witch. She winked at the dark furred elf and continued.

“Then we must send Murtagh away – ah ah ah sit down, Murtagh, I’m not finished. As I was saying, Murtagh must leave. However, instead of running off into the wilds again,” She fixed Murtagh with a harsh stare, “I propose that he returns to Alagaësia.”

There was a stunned, tense silence. Then, everyone began to speak at once. Words, both spoken and thought tumbled over each other, reminding Murtagh of trying to listen out for one bird in a cacophony of hundreds.

Then, a roar; _THEYNA!_ And all was silent again. _I sense, Angela svit-kona, that there is more to this proposal._ Glaedr spoke with the exaggerated patience of an exasperated teacher.

“Why, Glaedr, you sense correctly! Yes, I had more to say, before you all started yammering away at me so I couldn’t think straight. Yes, I do propose that Murtagh and Thorn return to Alagaësia, and I have a specific purpose in mind. Murtagh and Thorn must perform an act of contrition. There’s probably some elven ritual for contrition, if you wanted to make it formal. Personally, I would suggest that Murtagh and Thorn, appropriately accompanied, would be fine egg couriers. Who else but a dragon and Rider should guard the last eggs?”

“Have you forgotten that we very probably terrorised or murdered the people we would be taking the eggs to?” Murtagh’s tone was chillingly dry.

“No, Murtagh, I have not,” Angela retorted, “I also think that to have any future within this new Order, you need to tell your side of the story. How you were forced to swear those oaths, how you are trying to atone for your deeds in the war. People may be slow to understand, but they _will_ understand. Also, and more personally, you must address this; you cannot run away from it and expect it to heal. If you want my professional opinion as an _excellent_ healer, that is.” Clearly finished, Angela returned to her knitting, leaving the rest of the group to mull over her words.

 _I agree with Angela svit-kona._ Fírnen, previously silent, broadcast his thoughts. Arya nodded pensively, her brow furrowed in thought.

 _As do Eragon and I._ Saphira agreed.

“I also agree with Angela svit-kona,” Blödhgarm inclined his furred head politely to the herbalist. Eyes turned to Murtagh and Thorn, who were intently staring at each other, clearly deep in conversation. 

After a tense minute, Murtagh threw up his hands in resignation. “Fine, we’ll carry the bloody eggs. I take it you have ideas about our companions too, Angela?”

“Why yes, as a matter of fact I do. Solembum and I would be delighted to pay a visit to Alagaësia. To keep you both out of trouble, of course.” She winked at the pair of them, then turned to Eragon and Blödhgarm. “So, we’re all agreed. We’ll take, say, five eggs? We can pick them tomorrow.” Eragon nodded, his brow furrowing in concentration, no doubt mentally working through the roster of eggs that had yet to be tested against the youth of Alagaësia with Blödhgarm.

“We can spell protection amulets for you and Thorn both, brother, if you wish,” Eragon mused aloud, “And we can make you a pair of scrying mirrors.”

Blödhgarm nodded in agreement, adding, “I think three sets would be sufficient for Murtagh’s use. We can keep one here on Arngor, the Queen can keep another, and one for Angela svit-kona.” Eragon and Blödhgarm now began their discussion of protection amulets in earnest; Eragon opined that he would only allow Murtagh to leave with a powerful diamond amulet, while Blödhgarm was advocating for a simple metal one, on the grounds Murtagh was already a powerful magic user, and would not be caught unawares by the necessary energy drain such an amulet caused.

 _I will accompany Murtagh and Thorn also._ Glaedr spoke into the chatter, and his tone brooked no argument. For the second time that evening, there was stunned silence.

“ _Ebrithil –”_ Arya began hesitantly, only to be abruptly silenced by Murtagh.

“ _What?!”_ His anguished retort to the golden dragon echoed around the clearing. His fingers flexed unconsciously on Thorn’s leg, gripping and regripping a spike. The red dragon was likewise agitated, his tail whipped through the air above his hindquarters, and he bared his teeth in a silent snarl.

 _Because you are both in need of further training._ The dragon’s tone was curt. _And because I am uniquely placed to assist you. As I have said, from Oromis I learned caring for mine own enemies, and I wish to rectify, as far as I am able from within this Eldunarí, our earlier failings. I cannot undo what the Mad King did to the two of you, but I can assist you in healing from it, and perhaps, gain some further measure of peace in the undertaking._ Murtagh could only gape as Glaedr added _. If you have no objection, Eragon, I would appreciate it if Blödhgarm will accompany me, as my companion._

Eragon broke the silence. “Does Umaroth know this, _ebrithil_?”

 _Umaroth is the one who has most assisted me in coming to this conclusion. After you and Saphira took him to view Ristvak’baen he too gained some sense of finality. He will always mourn Vrael, as I will always mourn Oromis, but we must turn our focus to our students. Therefore, I have decided I will train Murtagh and Thorn now, to make amends for what I failed to do before._ Glaedr’s tone was final. Murtagh felt his mouth hang open as he struggled to process what the golden dragon had just said.

Saphira raised her massive head, blinking slowly at them all. _Now that that is settled, I would like you all to leave. Pregnant mothers need their sleep._ Her tone was amused, but there was an undercurrent of annoyance; she had reached the end of her patience. As Eragon stood to leave, she turned and trapped him under her chin, pinning him haplessly in place. The rest of the group rose, and with farewells of varying formality, left her grove, departing back to the Hall of Colours on swift wings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tuatha du orothrim: Tempering the fool's wisdom, a level in Rider training. 
> 
> Dûrgrimst Az Sweldn rak Anhûin: The Tears of Anhuin (Dwarvish). 
> 
> Ebrithil: Master. 
> 
> Murtagh-vodhr: An honorific of middling praise. 
> 
> Theyna: Silence. 
> 
> Angela svit-kona: An honorific for a woman of great wisdom. 
> 
> Ristvak’baen: Place of Sorrow. This is where Vrael, the last leader of Riders before the Mad King, died. Previously this site was called Edoc'sil, meaning unconquered.


	5. Preparations

Chapter 4 Preparations

“We chose these five for you,” Eragon gestured to the beautiful eggs arrayed across his desk. Murtagh was transfixed, barely noticing as his brother moved around his study. He had only ever seen Thorn’s egg. Though that egg had been beautiful, as all dragon eggs were, his memories of it were pained.

The eggs were arranged in order of size: on the left, the largest was a smooth cream egg shot through with gold veins and nearly two feet long; the second almost as large, the rich shimmering brown of just-hammered copper; the third and fourth were almost identical in size, one a buttery rich yellow with streaks of rich orange, the other an ethereal pink, the colour of a sunset in high summer, while the fifth one was a rich gleaming purple, with veins of shimmering black, barely a foot long on the right. The midday sun streaming into Eragon’s quarters in the north tower of the Hall of Colours set them ablaze with light, refracting rainbows onto the curved wooden ceiling. Murtagh stepped forward and stroked smallest one, marvelling as he felt a pulse of magic as the dragonet inside responded briefly, fading away as it settled back into a deathlike sleep. The size difference intrigued him; he assumed the size of the mother impacted the size of the egg, but he would have to discuss it with Blodhgarm during their travel.

“Eragon, they’re beautiful,” He felt a sudden lump in his throat, “I’m truly honoured you think I’m worthy of this.”

“You always were, Murtagh.” Eragon clapped a hand on his shoulder from behind. “There’s something else I’d like to discuss though, if you’re of a mind.” Murtagh turned reluctantly to see Eragon holding a sixth egg, this one a foot long, a gleaming sea green, and Murtagh knew Saphira had finally clutched. His brother, the Head Rider, had a giddy grin on his face, transforming him back into the youth he truly was.

“If you would, for us, Saphira and I would be honoured if you included this one in your journey,” He cradled it as if it were his own newborn, looking at Murtagh earnestly.

“Last night?” Murtagh laid a gentle hand on the egg, as precious as all the others and yet infinitely more so.

“Yes, soon after you left. Nine, all healthy. Saphira and I – mostly Saphira – decided to give one to the Order. The rest, we have put to sleep, for she is unsure, and I don’t want her to be pressured into giving them all up.”

“Put them to sleep?” Murtagh queried. His brother turned and laid the final egg on the desk, gesturing for Murtagh to join him as he settled onto the low reading couch that adjoined the desk. Like the library, Eragon’s solar dispensed magical drinks. Murtagh flicked his fingers almost imperceptibly, summoning an iced drink as he stretched in the midday sun streaming in through the stained-glass windows. 

“Yes, like Saphira and Thorn before they came to us. If they were donated by a wild dragon, as Saphira was, or born to a Rider’s dragon, they were spelled so the dragon would only hatch for their future Rider.” Murtagh nodded, recalling that the three eggs had languished in Galbatorix’s treasury for over a century before hatching. Eragon continued, “Glaedr says that wild eggs don’t require that spell, as they only hatch when conditions are optimal.” At Murtagh’s mystified look, Eragon shrugged, then continued.

“We found over two hundred eggs on Vroengard, and twenty-seven of those were destined for Riders, Well, twenty-five, now Tarhys and Savarane are hatched,” He grimaced slightly. “The third one we left hasn’t hatched, and Umaroth fears the hatchling may have gone egg-addled from waiting too long. He has requested you collect it and return it here, so the elder dragons can assess its mind.” Murtagh nodded pensively as he began to consider his route through the settlements of Alagaësia, then a thought occurred.

“Eragon, do dragons mother their eggs? Or do they leave them as common lizards do?”

“They mother them. Saphira has retained the rest of her clutch for now, and they will be placed in the Coloured Cloister –” He gestured vaguely at the ceiling, indicating the glass vault that the Eldunarí and unhatched eggs resided in, -- “When she is ready to see them leave,” Eragon’s tone was indulgent. “She does not wish to give them up straight away, and I will not force her. This though, this is the largest, and we decided she is for the Order between us.” For the first time, Murtagh truly felt the weight of what he was being entrusted with; Saphira’s first laid egg, the strongest of her clutch.

“May I contact Saphira directly?” Murtagh asked his brother; merely asking Eragon to convey his feelings felt inadequate. His brother’s face went momentarily slack, then he nodded as he returned to himself. Murtagh took a breath, and reached out for the blue dragon’s mind. Even among all the shining minds on Arngor, she was a beacon, and he was drawn to her with ease. He found her contented, tail wrapped around the remaining eight eggs as she breathed superheated air over them. Like the one Eragon held, they were all some mixture of green and blue, ranging from the almost-black green of a dark pine forest, to the stark icy blue of a glacier.

 _Saphira Brightscales,_ He had never used the honorific the elves had given her until now, but it had never seemed more fitting; her mind glowed with contentment.

She welcomed him with equal formality. _Murtagh Morzansson._ The name did not sting coming from Saphira.

The Red Rider continued. _I am truly honoured that you allow us to take your first egg. Thorn and I will defend her with our lives._

 _Murtagh, who better than you or Thorn? For you are as much my brother as you are Eragon’s, as Thorn is my brother and you are his heart. There is no-one I trust more in this world, save my Eragon or Sister Arya or Beloved Fírnen; you are perfect guardians for my strongest daughter, my fiercest pride._ Murtagh could not fully name the emotion that suffused Saphira’s words, but _adoration_ came close. Sensing her wordless dismissal, he bid her farewell and returned to Eragon’s room. Such an emotional response from Saphira, who usually responded with a pithy, scathing wit, was rare, and Murtagh treasured it. He swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat.

“Well, that settles that then. We’ll take six.” As awed as Murtagh was at being trusted with the six eggs, his pragmatic nature won out. He turned back to Eragon, gesturing for his brother to join him as he turned, chin resting on his fist as he contemplated the six eggs.

“Chests would be best to transport them all,” He mused. “For the security chests offer, but also the ease of transporting them. A chest will strap to Thorn’s back much more easily than six eggs.” Eragon nodded in agreement as Murtagh continued. “If we line them up like so –” He reached for Saphira’s egg, placing it alongside the large brown egg, pulling the middling sized buttery yellow egg into the trio – “We can roughly make both chests the same size.” He moved the large cream egg next to the diminutive purple one, and completed the second trio with the pale pink egg. Eragon nodded, satisfied at his brother’s arrangement.

“I agree. I’ll have the dwarves begin making them with spell-locks only you, Blodhgarm, Arya or Angela can open.” Eragon was determined; doubtless he had already contacted the necessary people, and once again Murtagh was stunned in the trust being placed in him.

“Eragon, the sizes – the hatchling must correspond to the size of the egg, surely?” Eragon grinned at him.

“Why brother, I do believe I know where your thoughts are leading. Yes, they indeed will. That hatchling,” Eragon indicated the cream egg, “Will be the largest of this bunch, by quite a margin.”

“Then I think that is an Urgal egg. Large people for large eggs, I suppose it makes some sort of sense,” Murtagh shrugged, delighted at the easy way he and Eragon routinely finished each other’s thoughts and bounced ideas off each other. In the back of his mind, he felt Thorn’s first sleepy movements of the day, stretching luxuriously in the heat of a sunbeam.

 _Good morning to you, slugabed. A poor excuse for a dragon, you are._ Thorn didn’t respond, but his disgust at being awake was clear. Murtagh snorted and pulled away from his partner, returning to the study. His brother was staring fixedly at nothing, his mind engaged in a far-off conversation. Murtagh idly picked a scroll from the shelves, stretching his lanky frame across Eragon’s stuffed couch with a sigh. He quickly became immersed in the scroll, and cursed roundly when Eragon finally spoke. 

“The dwarves are drawing up plans for the egg chests, Murtagh; I just spoke with Smith Thodris. We can stop by her forge this afternoon on the way to the armoury. The new Riders will require swords; we have several that match these colours, and of course you know they will have to try out different styles to see what suits them. And of course, we need to visit the _Aella_ , to confirm how much space you’ll have – you still travel lightly, yes? And we’ll also have to write up a list of goods for the supply of Arngor –” Eragon was in full flow, pacing the room excitedly as he punctuated his speech with various hand gestures. Murtagh leaned back, arms crossed, scroll forgotten, listening intently to his brother’s monologue, nodding and interjecting where appropriate.

~

The days following his and Eragon’s planning meeting passed Murtagh in a whirlwind of activity. The morning after Eragon and Murtagh’s conference, Smith Thodris Ironarm stumped up the flight of stairs, armed with her measuring cords, a plan of the chests, and a slate. Having agreed to personally oversee the creation of the egg chests, she barely spoke to either Rider as they broke their fast in the predawn gloom, conducting her measurements and comparing them to her sketch with a practised eye. A powerfully gifted magician in her own right, Thodris had turned her skill to blacksmithing, and had been Orik’s first choice to assist Eragon with building his new city.

“Three days, Shadeslayer, Kingkiller.” She bowed to them and left, pausing to allow Arya, Blodhgarm, Glaedr, Umaroth and his elven attendant, and Arngor’s eight chief architects into Eragon’s study. Outside, Fírnen and Thorn thundered across the city, racing to the flat roof below Eragon’s quarters. Neither wished to join the meeting, but neither wished to lose either.

“ _Iet ástar, iet kærr fricai,”_ Arya said, greeting them both with a kiss on the cheek, studiously ignoring the hatchling antics of her partner. Eragon gestured for the arrivals through to his solar, where he had pinned the blueprints of Arngor the previous night. Taking his seat at the head of the table, Arya on his left, Murtagh on his right, while Thorn and Fírnen jostled for space in the dragon-sized open windows, Eragon called the latest meeting to order, and so they began.

~

Murtagh stretched, feeling his shoulders pop. He had been closeted in Eragon’s solar for most of the day, discussing building plans, ranging from student dormitories to dragon landing sites, with his brother and the city’s architects. At the close of their extensive discussions, he had been entrusted with a hefty chest of gold, a letter of recommendation signed by Eragon, and an extensive list of building materials.

~

The following day, he and Arya visited the armoury, accompanied by the automaton Cuaroc; in the end, they elected to take around thirty swords, of varying lengths. Murtagh had also discovered a small sword named Aster of a red that matched his own, and, with Eragon’s blessing, had taken it to be retooled into a poniard dagger he could wear to events instead of carrying the notorious Zar’roc.

That evening, Murtagh collapsed into his bed, overwhelmed at the pace of the week. Thorn lay a few feet away in a padded bower that was partially open to the sky, likewise exhausted.

 _Goodnight._ Thorn murmured, huffing through the open arch to his Rider.

_Goodnight, my love._

~

At the end of the week, Murtagh was invited to the great central forge, accompanied by his brother and Arya. Thodris, true to her word, had led her smiths in creating the egg chests, and they were as close to perfect as Murtagh had ever seen. Because of the ongoing building, there was cured lumber to spare; the dwarves had selected an ancient pale ash slab for the egg chests, with a looping, knotted grain. They had decided against singing them into shape, as the elves favoured, voting instead to construct them in a traditional manner, employing Yaela the Spellweaver to weave enchantments of protection, longevity, sturdiness and beauty into the wood as they worked. The timber was overlaid with a blackened iron filigree, inlaid with tiny white and gold jewels, depicting sinuous dragons in flight. Yaela had enchanted these gems to draw energy into themselves, as Arya had done with the reed boat, to prolong the spells she had laid in the chests. The insides were lined with the elvish fabric lámarae, moulded around leather depressions to cushion and secure each egg. They were finished with padded leather cross straps, to prevent the eggs sliding out during travel. The same attention had been paid to the carrying handles on either side of the chest; the handles themselves was sturdy, leather wrapped iron, while the handle grips were roaring dragon heads. They were a truly wondrous design.

~

Murtagh joined his brother in his suite for a farewell dinner after overseeing the loading of his own travelling gear, the swords and food supplies for the journey to Hedarth into the hold of the _Aella._ They were joined by Arya, Angela, and Blödhgarm, while Saphira, Thorn, Fírnen were curled about each other in a tangled mess of wings and scales on the reinforced flat roof that stretched out a storey below Eragon’s quarters, with Solembum perched atop them all. Glaedr was also present; Blödhgarm had placed the Eldunarí on a large cushion on the roof with the three younger dragons, so Glaedr could enjoy the warmth of a glorious Arngor sunset with his kin.

The fare was simple but delicious, prepared in the elven manner with little meat, accompanied by a light berry wine of Angela’s own making. Their conversation flowed as the wine did, and Murtagh found himself the most relaxed he had been for months.

Eventually, their companions left for the evening. Arya was the last to depart, pressing kisses to their foreheads before she closed the oak door behind her. The Rider brothers stared out over their wine into the inky Arngor night. Eragon spoke then, his voice thick, though whether that was from the wine or emotion Murtagh could not tell.

“Stay safe in Alagaësia, Murtagh. Find the Riders and come back to us. Saphira and I cannot do this without you both.”

“We will brother. Don’t worry.” Murtagh awkwardly patted Eragon’s shoulder; being emotionally vulnerable did not come easily to him, especially after his treatment by the Mad King. Eragon huffed a laugh at Murtagh’s gesture but didn’t press further. Murtagh changed topic, unwilling to analyse his wine-induced vulnerability with his brother.

“Eragon, I need to sleep,” Murtagh rose unsteadily. “May I use your guest room?” His suite of rooms was only two storeys below, but he was suddenly bone-achingly tired. Eragon nodded, gesturing distractedly at the screen door as he stared away, his expression inscrutable.

“Goodnight, Rider Eragon.”

“Goodnight, Rider Murtagh.”


	6. The Red Rider's Departure

Chapter 5, The Red Rider’s Departure 

The day of their departure dawned crisp, clear and with a bracing autumn chill gusting from the north. Murtagh dressed hastily, eager to get onto the _Aella_ and away; he treasured the time he had spent with his unexpected family and being involved with building the new Hall, but he was itching to be away and doing something more than advising his brother on the size of a training ring or refectory. Thorn met him at Eragon’s window, spreading his wings expansively; he too was anxious to be off. Fírnen was nowhere to be seen, while Saphira was gnawing eagerly away at something behind Thorn and cheerily projected a greeting to Murtagh as he came into view. Murtagh kissed Thorn’s snout, bade farewell to Saphira, and swung a leg over his dragon’s neck as they took off and coasted forward on the magical air currents that were manipulated under the dragon platforms across the Hall.

After an hours’ flight through a cloudless sky, the two masted ship came into view. Fírnen was draped over the swan shaped prow, his tail trailing in the cool blue of the Edda River, while Arya was supervising the final loading. The song-grown quay was bustling with representatives of all four races, with elves unsurprisingly being the most numerous. Thorn circled the white ship, letting off a jet of flame as he hovered in place for Murtagh to dismount. Murtagh dropped to the main deck of the _Aella_ beside Arya, slowing his descent with a whisper of magic. Thorn lazily banked away, settling on the steep opposite bank of the river. Fírnen elected to join him, sending the whole ship rocking wildly as his slid off the prow and paddled across the width of the river.

 _Wake us when we’re ready to go, please._ The green dragon purred to the two Riders, and was immediately asleep. Thorn winked at Murtagh, then he too was dozing.

“I wish I could fall asleep that easily,” Murtagh grumbled under his breath to Arya.

“As do I,” Arya linked her arm through his, a gesture of easy companionship that still took Murtagh by surprise, even after living on Arngor for nearly three years. “We’re nearly finished loading. Everyone who needs to be aboard is. There is a cabin left for you on the poop deck, and all of your gear is in there already, with a large window that opens onto the river.” She glanced at his mystified expression. “For ease of dragon-access. You, and I, can leave that way and be with them within minutes. Angela and Blödhgarm’s cabins do not have such windows.”

“I see. Where are they?”

Arya gestured to two doors either side of the double wide staircase down to the hold, hidden under the overhang of the poop deck, adding, “Our cabins are all the same size, but not the same shape. Theirs are thinner, to allow the crew to pass between them to the hold easily.” Murtagh nodded, fascinated by the strange design of the elvish ship. He grinned at Angela, who had appeared in one door, hands wrapped around a steaming mug of something.

“Tea on the deck, dears?” Sensing he would hinder more than help the crew _,_ Murtagh nodded, following Angela up the steep ladder to the poop deck. He gave his cabin a critical glance, stowed the gear that could be stowed, and returned to the herbalist as she poured four cups from a huge copper kettle.

“In case Solembum wants one when he wakes up,” She explained to his confused glance. Soon enough, they were joined by Arya and Blödhgarm, and the crew below them moved with new urgency as gangplanks were drawn up and ropes coiled in their proper places. On the opposite bank, the two dragons stirred, with Thorn raising his head lazily to assess the situation.

_We’re going soon, Thorn._

_We know. We’re going upriver to hunt. Catch up to us._ The two dragons shook themselves, reminding Murtagh uncannily of the wild cats he and Thorn had seen in the northern wastes, but instead of an explosive leap followed by the snapping of wings, they languidly slid into the river, sending erratic waves slapping noisily against the side of the _Aella._ Undulating like sea serpents, they disappeared upriver and out of sight within minutes _._ Murtagh was unconcerned; there was nothing in these lands that could harm them. Beside him, Arya grinned at him as she directed the final loading. 

Within an hour of Murtagh boarding the ship, Blödhgarm gave the order to cast off. They were away, the Arngor quay and everyone on it slipping swiftly over the horizon as the crew drew on the gems implanted in the ship to sing it upriver.


	7. Night Terrors

Chapter 6, Night Terrors

_The King had taken him and his ruby hatchling as they slept, exhausted after their bonding. They had run from Gabatorix and Shruikan as soon as the King had thrown them from Shruikan’s back with a mad cackle; the tiny dragon clung to Murtagh’s bare chest, too terrified to even cry out, his claws drawing hot streaming blood. Behind them, above them, all around them, the bone-chilling skree, skree of Shruikan’s claws being sharpened against stone echoed through the forest. Cradling the nameless hatchling against his chest, Murtagh willed him to remain silent as he ducked under a fallen pine tree, feeling his way blindly into a cramped earthy hollow that some creature or another had carved out._

_Pausing for a moment, Murtagh fumbled to the earthy wall and slumped against it, hurriedly taking stock of his situation. It was dire. He had no clothes other than his breeches and boots; he had no weapon or food; he had a hungry, terrified, newly hatched dragonet; his grasp of magic was rudimentary at best, and he was exhausted. Lastly, and most terrifying of all, however, was that he did not believe them to be on the mainland at all. He closed his eyes, impressing the thought SILENCE upon the red dragon, and tried to picture a map of Alagaësia, pain-addled and sleep-deprived as he was. Shruikan’s flight at dusk had taken little more than an hour, but the massive dragon reached a speed that he knew Saphira was not capable of, flying higher and further than the dragoness could; they could have been on any of the desolate holms or skerries that hugged the coastline from Narda in the north to Feinster in the south._

_He slid down and slumped against the sloping back wall of the hollow, his eyes following the small dragon as he snuffled inquisitively around in the gloom, pouncing on an unfortunate centipede with bloody glee. Murtagh smothered a smile as he watched his partner inelegantly chomp up the unlucky insect. Meal consumed, the red dragon climbed into Murtagh’s lap, his claws pricking like the spines of a rose as he settled into Murtagh’s arms. Murtagh stroked his snout, suddenly overwhelmed by having his **own** dragon; the dragon trilled sleepily and pressed closer to Murtagh, eager to share his warmth as he dozed off. _

_~_

_The red dragon wailed, his reedy voice shattering the silent night air, jerking Murtagh to alertness. Alarmed, Murtagh snatched up the dragonet, wrapping a hand tightly around his snout as they fell squirming to the damp ground, trying to impress, again, the need for SILENCE, but it was too late. Dimly, the whooshing roar of wind filling giant black wings could be heard. The red dragon, previously animated in his desire to explore, now quailed against the back wall of their hollow, a wing over his eyes in terror. Murtagh likewise felt his gorge rise and fought the urge to vomit as the low booms of Shruikan flying reached them. They could do nothing, for if they ran, Shruikan would see them; they could only wait._

_~_

Murtagh awoke, shuddering with an icy sweat, as he had done on Sharktooth Island all those years ago, and retched until he felt bile burn his throat. The memory of Shruikan’s claws, the earth collapsing in on them, Thorn shrieking in terror, and the stench of Shruikan’s fetid breath came back to him. He doubled over at the phantom pain of two of his ribs snapping under the crushing pressure of a magical dart, thrown by the King, as he tried fruitlessly to protect his fragile hatchling, and the secondary lancing agony of Galbatorix’s mind-vice.

 _My love…_ Thorn spoke, woken by Murtagh’s anguish.

_It was Sharktooth again. That hollow. How I didn’t protect you._

_Oh my love. There was nothing you could have done. You could not fight the King and the Black One then, you know this._

Murtagh knew Thorn was correct, but it did nothing to assuage his guilt. Grimacing at the cold sweat soaked into his sheets, Murtagh swung his legs out of the narrow berth and stripped it, then washed and dressed. He stepped out onto the deck, taking a deep, cleansing breath of cool river air. It was still inky black outside, but off in the east, Murtagh could faintly discern the first grey smudges of dawn.

Angela’s kettle was where it always was, resting on it’s moulded iron trivet with various bags of tea leaves tucked neatly into a sectioned open box fitted underneath it. It stood between his and Arya’s cabins, and the elf woman was there, tending to the brewing pot with a practised air. The mingled scent of mint and lavender drifted across the deck. Murtagh sighed inwardly; of course, she had heard him tossing and turning during his night terrors.

Wordlessly, she handed him a cup, quelling the magical fire with a flicker of wordless intention. Murtagh sat, inhaling the fumes of the brew gratefully. Arya joined him and sipped her own tea, something enervating and tarter than his own by the smell of it, staring inscrutably through her dark lashes at him.

They drank their tea in silence. Murtagh was glad of her company.


	8. On The Properties of Fireweed

Chapter 7, On The Properties of Fireweed

“Murtagh-vodhr, I apologise for waking you at this early hour,” Blödhgarm’s rich voice reached Murtagh, polite but insistent.

“What do you want, Blödhgarm? It’s not even dawn,” he growled at the elf from his bunk, arm thrown over his eyes as the first rays of sunrise started to edge into his cabin. The motion of the boat had kept Murtagh from restful sleep since the beginning of their journey nearly a week and a half prior, and he stared through the crook of his arm at the elf with something approaching loathing.

“Glaedr would like to begin a lesson with you regarding the properties of fireweed, but has instructed me to practise the Rimgar with you beforehand.”

“Piss off. I’m too ill for this.” Truly, today was not one Murtagh wanted to wake up to. His stomach roiled and he heaved, spitting bile and water into a bucket. Blödhgarm politely averted his eyes.

 _I heard that, Murtagh-vodhr. As you are unwell, I will ignore it. I do expect you to perform the Rimgar with Arya and Blödhgarm this morning, however. The exercise will alleviate your motion sickness. You have been abed too long._ The golden dragon’s tone was sympathetic and stern, but tinged with heady disapproval, and Murtagh knew it was no use ignoring him. He knew the dragon was right, but he didn’t want to get out of bed at _all._ Thorn was also disgruntled, though how much was due to any motion sickness the dragon felt or Murtagh’s morose self-pity bleeding across their link Murtagh did not know.

Blödhgarm was still standing at his door, the morning sun was beaming over his shoulder. Murtagh groaned and pulled the cover over his face, throwing magic at the door to slam it in Blödhgarm’s furred face in a fit of churlish pique.

 _Murtagh!_ Arya was furious, and he winced at the censure in her voice. _Apologise to him!_

 _No. Leave me alone._ He blocked her from his mind, throwing the covers up over his face. His peace lasted only a moment before a shuddering crack echoed around his cabin. The sunlight again streamed in through the door, throwing Arya’s features into sharp relief.

“Murtagh. Get out of bed.” Her low tone had a perilous edge that made the hair on the nape of Murtagh’s neck prickle. She continued. “Get up. Glaedr has reached the end of his patience, as have I. Angela has offered a tonic to quell your motion sickness; you _will_ take it, and you will waste _ebrithil_ Glaedr’s time no longer. He is teaching Thorn every day; you are remiss not to join them.” Arya’s eyes flashed dangerously as she finished upbraiding him.

“If I take the tonic, can I do the Rimgar later?” Murtagh wheedled, aware of how childish he sounded.

 _Yes, Murtagh. I will begin a lesson on fireweed as soon as you have joined us._ Glaedr spoke in clipped tones, and Murtagh knew the golden dragon would brook no further arguments from him. He sighed and motioned for Arya to bring him the tonic, quashing the growing panic that came with taking a potion.

 _Angela is not trying to poison you, my love, she is not the secret agent of a dead king,_ Thorn was exasperated. _I have said this time and time again, Angela wishes only to help you._

 _I know, but you know that the fear is not a rational one._ Murtagh muttered acerbically to his partner. Arya stood in the door, staring at him with flinty eyes as he drank the sweet concoction.

“Get dressed, Rider Murtagh. Your _ebrithil_ is waiting.” Arya turned on her heel and left, slamming the heavy door behind her.

~

_And so, our wild kin provided eggs to the Riders, only a few each year, in return for the Riders’ regular provision and husbandry of fireweed, which was grown on the islands of Vroengard and Sharktooth in vast quantities –_

“What did you say?” Murtagh’s head whipped round to face Glaedr so fast he felt the bones of his neck click as he stared at the golden Eldunarí.

_The Riders grew fireweed on the islands of Vroengard and Sharktooth, Murtagh. I would thank you to pay proper attention during your lessons as –_

Murtagh stumbled to his feet, knocking over his chair, pushing past his mystified peers as he jerkily moved away from Glaedr.

 _Murtagh, what seems to be the problem?_ The Red Rider ignored the golden dragon and mentally shrieked for Thorn, grasping the rails until he felt it splinter under his palms to steady himself. Wind roared in his ears, but there was no wind on the river. Instead it was as if he stood with his back to a raging vortex, dragging at him to fall. Behind him, his travel companions’ voices were thunderously loud and at the same time distorted, as if he was listening while his ears were stuffed with cloth.

 _Thorn!_ Murtagh pleaded. 

_I am coming, my love. Brother Fírnen flies with me._ Sensing Murtagh’s frustration at Arya and Fírnen’s unwanted intervention, Thorn added, _I can outfly Fírnen, if you would wish it._

 _Yes, yes._ Murtagh pleaded, begging the crimson dragon to fly faster. Thorn did not reply, but Murtagh sensed Thorn’s pace increase, the ache of his exertion bleeding through their link.

“Murtagh?” Arya murmured hesitantly, laying a hand on his shoulder, “Are you well, _iet kærr_?”

The thin thread of Murtagh’ fraying self-control snapped. Furiously, he spun around to face the elf queen, his closest friend other than Eragon, throwing her hand off as if she were diseased. “Do I seem well _, Your Majesty_?” He took a step forward, feeling a rage of magic suffuse his words, hearing it crackle with the intensity of his anger. “Do I seem as if I want your lesson? Your pity?” He grinned maniacally at Arya as she took an involuntary step back; behind her, the crew stared at warily, as if they expected him to attack at any moment. In the back of his mind, Murtagh wryly reflected that they were probably right to be alarmed; he was sure he looked quite mad.

The booming arrival of Thorn, soaring out of the afternoon sun, ended their tense impasse. Thorn swept over the ship, uncaring of how he jostled the occupants, and hovered in place, buffeting the people on deck with powerful gusts from his wings. The ship ceased moving almost immediately and it’s complement of elves turned to Thorn, with expressions ranging from wariness to outright fear. He revelled in it, spreading his wings to their limit and hissing malevolent, casting all below in shade and hovering in place as he felt Murtagh manoeuvring up his tail, utilising his spikes as a crude ladder.

Once his Rider was in place, Thorn veered sharply away from the river, aiming for the grey smudge of barely visible hills to the north. Behind them the opposite direction he had flown, both dragon and Rider saw a green comet fall through the clouds, reforming into the shape of Fírnen, and both dragon and Rider hated the sight. 

_Time to go._ Murtagh’s voice was grim as he strapped his legs into the saddle.

 _Agreed._ Thorn banked sharply away from the ship and it’s elves, and they felt shared relief as the Green Prince and his Rider didn’t follow them.

~

Murtagh lay where he fell, encircled by Thorn’s bulk. Helpless to assist his Rider, the red dragon could only keep Murtagh warm as wave after wave of sickening dizziness overtook his Rider. Thorn whined in distress as Murtagh frantically sucked in a lungful of air, only to be overcome with a choking cough as his heart fluttered madly. His clothes too bore the marks of his distress; what had been a newly worn elven made tunic that morning was now ripped and bloody; Murtagh was deliberately scratching at himself. Thorn rarely wished he was not a dragon, but he did in that moment, for he could not pry Murtagh’s arms away from his body without hurting him. Knowing he could do nothing else, Thorn instead held Murtagh’s mind as close as he could, murmuring snatches of a melody he knew from Murtagh’s memory as his body was wracked with tremors.

_Sleep, my darling, night is falling_

_Rest in slumber sound and deep;_

_I would know why you are smiling,_

_Smiling sweetly as you sleep!_

_Don't be frightened, it's a leaflet_

_Tapping, tapping on the door;_

_Don't be frightened, 'twas a wavelet_

_Sighing, sighing on the shore._

Gradually, Murtagh subsided into a fitful sleep. Thorn’s tense vigil continued through the dusk and into the claustrophobic press of a moonless night.


	9. Shadow of The King

Chapter 8 Shadow of the King

Thorn could only roughly judge how long they lay on the stark hillside, but from the setting and rising of the sun, he surmised they had been there for most a day. Below him, Murtagh stirred, coughing fitfully.

 _Fírnen comes._ Thorn raised his massive head, staring through the dawn mist at a dull green smear. Murtagh, too dispirited and drained to even raise his head from the stony ground, merely grunted. The green dragon glided to the base of their small hill, deliberately slowing to appear non-threatening. He bore two dead deer in his foreclaws. Thorn growled quietly, a wisp of smoke trickling from one nostril, but otherwise did not protest the green dragon’s approach. Arya dismounted, kissing Fírnen’s cheek, and with carefully measured steps, approached Thorn, eyeing him at every step. Within his Eldunarí, Glaedr probed Thorn’s mind gently, trying to assess the younger dragon’s mood.

 _He will not speak to you, Dröttning._ Thorn said curtly. Fírnen hissed at his sharp tone, but made no move towards them, occupied as he was with neatly quartering a deer.

 _He must, Thorn Blödhskular_. Glaedr was sombre; Arya slowly raised a hand to Thorn’s snout, staring intently into his crimson eyes.

“We will wait as long as we must, _kærr hjarta.”_ Fírnen dipped his head in agreement. Thorn stared inscrutably at Arya for a few more moments, then huffed in defeat. He lifted his wing, allowing Arya access to his Rider.

“Oh, Murtagh…” Arya’s hand flew up to her mouth as she stared at her prone friend. He groaned fitfully, turning his head to the side to cough up a mixture of blood, sputum and saliva onto the dry, rocky ground.

“I am sure I am a sight,” Murtagh said drily, staring up at the gaunt branches of the tree he and Thorn had taken scant shelter under, barely visible in the gloom.

 _You have looked better, Brother Murtagh,_ Fírnen had joined them, padding delicately up the rocky slope, skirting around the deep gouges left by Thorn’s terrified kneading at the slope during the night. _Deer, my dear?_ He deposited a neatly dismembered carcass in front of Thorn. Murtagh tried to chuckle, but his laugh devolved into a hacking cough. Arya dashed to his side, green magic already welling in her hands.

“Enough of this, _kærr fricai,”_ Arya murmured as she pressed a hand to his forehead. “You will tell us what is wrong, and we will not leave until you do.”

 _Agreed, Murtagh. Your health is of great concern to us._ Glaedr lent his strength to Arya, pouring golden magic into her hands as she ministered to Murtagh’s ailments, from the gashes across his body to his damaged throat.

 _It is not something to burden you with, ebrithil Glaedr._ Even as he said it, Murtagh felt the words ring distinctly hollow.

In answer, Glaedr scoffed and pressed again, _Any concern of a student is as mine own, Murtagh. Tell me what troubles you._ The old dragon’s tone was warm but insistent, and Murtagh found himself reluctantly allowing Arya and Glaedr entry to his pained memories of Thorn’s hatching and the subsequent weeks of magical torture inflicted on the pair of them by the Mad King.

The memories flowed through him and around him like water, engulfing him, and he would have drowned in them if not for Glaedr’s glowing warmth and Arya’s quiet strength. Occasionally the old dragon would pull out a certain memory from the swirling stream, inspect it, then let it flow back –

_Murtagh saw the day Galbatorix had channelled the power of the broken and gibbering Eldunarí into his own transformation spell, an imperfect and painful mirror of Eragon’s own … he lay broken on the tiles, moaning, coughing up blood, unable to stop Shruikan methodically crushing the bones of a tiny Thorn’s tail … he heard Galbatorix mocking laugh, tinged with mania … He saw Thorn filled with painful, punishing growth magic … he saw the day Galbatorix had crucified him in front of an agonised Thorn, thrashing wildly under Shruikan’s paw … he saw the day Galbatorix finally wrested their true names from them … he felt the numbing nothing that filled his soul after that, broken only by rare periods he spent unmolested with Thorn …_

All of this he saw, and more, and still the memories came, seemingly endless. They finally abated, and his mind was fully engulfed by Glaedr’s golden warmth.

 _Murtagh,_ Glaedr began, and stopped, _Murtagh-finiarel, this is beyond what even I expected. To have endured so much, between the two of you, and to not be driven mad by it. I am truly humbled you have shown me this._

 _It is not so bad,_ Murtagh mumbled, knowing it was untrue.

 _Murtagh._ Glaedr sighed, _Murtagh, look at me, as I exist here, as I was._ The three-legged dragon appeared, coalescing together out of the golden mist that was Glaedr’s mind. _Murtagh, this was worse than I had ever feared, and Oromis and I failed you more times than I can count, and for that I ask your forgiveness. No Rider or dragon I knew could have withstood such torment._ Glaedr sighed again and spoke softly in the language of elves. _Sleep, Murtagh-finiarel, and be healed._

~

Arya withdrew from his mind, reeling from what she had seen. Thorn peered at her knowingly, scenting the tears that slid down her cheeks.

 _You and the old one saw._ It was not a question.

 _Yes._ Thorn snorted and raised his head to the sky, his shimmering eyes following the track of a shooting star.

 _Sleep, Drottning._ Thorn and Fírnen coiled about their Riders to stave off the cold, and Arya gratefully did as she was bid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blödhskular: Bloodscales. 
> 
> Kærr hjarta: Dear heart. 
> 
> kærr fricai: Dear friend.


	10. Part 2

**Part 2**


	11. The Red Rider's Return

Chapter 9, The Red Rider Returns

Murtagh swallowed hard as Hedarth came into view, grasping Arya’s hand as the city peaked over the horizon. After Murtagh’s attack and aborted attempt to flee, he had shared his growing anxieties with Arya; she had decided, after a short conversation with her Regent Däthedr via scrying mirror, that she and Fírnen would be accompanying Murtagh, Angela, Solembum, Glaedr and Blödhgarm on his journey around Alagaësia with the eggs, and not staying in Ellesméra as she had initially planned. The elf lord had accepted this drastic change in Arya’s schedule without complaint, much to Murtagh’s surprise.

To take his mind off the rapidly approaching city, Murtagh asked, “How will we test all the elves who want to be tested?”

“Däthedr has instructed all those who wish to be tested to come to Ellesméra, three weeks hence. We shall leave for Du Weldenvarden in four days, as we must oversee the loading of the ship with further supplies for Arngor.” Arya answered without looking at him; her eyes were fixed hungrily on Hedarth. She was ready for her excursion into the small city, dressed in her customary black riding leathers; her hair was unbound, falling loosely around her face, softening the harsh angles of her cheekbones.

Murtagh, eyeing the fast-growing piles being assembled by dwarves on the twin piers ahead of them, visible even at five hundred or so paces distant. He passed Arya the scroll of building materials without comment, receiving one of her rare full smiles in response. A smaller boat was hastily sculling over to the _Aella,_ crewed by two dwarves. The first, who stood at the prow of the reed-craft, was stout, blonde and, unusually for a dwarf, wearing robes, while his companion was considerably less well dressed. A receiver of ships, Murtagh realised, and thus a formal visitor from Hedarth. Arya flicked her fingers, sending the boom with the bosun’s chair trundling sedately to meet their visitor. Realising that Arya intended to invite the blonde interloper onto the ship itself, rather than conversing on land, Murtagh hastily bid her farewell, retiring to his cabin. The less he antagonised the dwarves, the better.

In the privacy of his room, Murtagh lay back on his bunk and reached out to Thorn. His dragon was almost as grumpy as he was, and had elected to fly above the cloud layer so his infamous ruby hide was not spotted by the dwarves on watch. The dwarves of Hedarth knew of the Red Rider’s presence, but Murtagh and Thorn had quietly agreed to not present themselves at the gate as such, given both his father’s enduring legacy and Murtagh’s more recent murder of Hrothgar.

 _I wish we had not accepted this duty,_ Thorn groused at him, _It is too soon for us to have returned to Alagaësia as Dragon and Rider._

 _I agree, but we are here now, and we cannot run away._ Murtagh pointed out.

 _Where are we going first?_ Changing the subject when he was uncomfortable was a habit Thorn had picked up from Murtagh.

_Ellesméra with the Queen and the Green Prince, Angela, Solembum, Blödhgarm and Glaedr. We’re testing all the young elves in the capital city two weeks from now._

_And then?_ Thorn prodded.

_I suppose we’ll fly to Fläm Lake, or perhaps the Isenstar, and test the Urgals. We scryed Nar Garzhvog on the journey here and informed him we were coming to test the eggs this year. We don’t know how long it will take to test all the elves; if one hatches we should wait until the dragonet can fly adequately before we move on._

_If one hatched we could easily carry them._ Thorn answered with a thoughtful hum. Murtagh hadn’t considered such an arrangement, and upon hearing it, he could see no glaring flaws in Thorn’s suggestion.

 _We would have to fly low and slow, so they don’t get buffeted off, and if they do, they could easily be caught with magic,_ Murtagh mused to his partner.

 _I agree. I suggest we discuss this with everyone tomorrow. I go to hunt now, I will see you when Fírnen brings you to me._ Thorn had flatly refused to enter Hedarth; he was uncomfortable even being near the city. Murtagh shared his discomfort, but he had been forbidden from leaving the ship by Arya. On the _Aella’s_ poop deck, directly opposite Murtagh’s cabin, he heard a dwarf scale the ladder to better oversee loading, directing a dozen workers in grinding Dwarvish. Blodhgarm had joined him; the warm pulse of magic that went with him indicating he was carrying Glaedr’s Eldunarí., The dark elf was mostly silent, interjecting occasionally in lilting tones, or conveying one thought or another’s of Glaedr’s. The _Aella_ moved ponderously forward; Murtagh surmised the blonde dwarf in robes had left, and the supply ship was now being towed to where the dwarves could more easily load it. As if in confirmation, the river slapped loudly against wooden structures that were not the ship, the hollow boom echoing around his cabin. His room was thrown into cool shadow as the _Aella_ was stopped between what Murtagh guessed were the two long piers he had seen from a distance.

Faced with no other options, Murtagh decided to check on the eggs, as had become his nervous habit over the course of their travel. Opening the first chest, he sighed with relief that the eggs had not moved. He smoothed a rough finger over the burning copper curve of the largest one, marvelling at the faint frisson of magic as the hatchling inside stirred at the contact. Beside it, Saphira’s sea green daughter-egg and the buttery yellow egg lay exactly as he had left them that morning. Sighing with relief, he turned to the second chest. The silky cream egg gleamed like spun gold even in the dim light of his cabin, highlighting the silvery white veins that spiderwebbed across the surface of the pale pink egg, which had slipped its binding in the hours since he had left it. Murtagh tenderly strapped the egg back into place, checking for cracks as he did so, more out of habit than any genuine fear. Satisfied the egg was undamaged and secured to his satisfaction, he turned to the purple egg. As he felt the moulded depressions for damage, a muffled _peep_ sliced through the near silence of his cabin. Murtagh tumbled backwards in surprise, sprawling in an ungainly manner on the floor. Foregoing getting up, he immediately reached for his partner.

 _Thorn, are you with Fírnen?_ The red dragon sent back an image of the green dragon dozing, tinged with his own irritation at being woken from his own nap in a midday sunbeam. He knew he could not reach Arya at this distance from Hedarth, and he was wary to open his mind with so many potential attackers in the city.

 _Tell him to tell Arya to get back to the Aella right now. One of the eggs is awake._ Thorn immediately nipped at Fírnen, overriding the green dragon’s drowsy irritation as he relayed Murtagh’s message.

As soon as the dragons had been alerted, Murtagh poked at Blodhgarm, who responded immediately with a questioning thought. Ignoring speech entirely, Murtagh simply relayed his own memory to the elf and the elder dragon.

 _We are not a race to wait for convenience, Murtagh-finiarel._ The golden dragon laughed, dispelling Blodhgarm’s shock. When Murtagh became aware of his surroundings again, he could hear the spellcaster firmly ending all dwarven movement on or off their vessel, overruling the overseer’s grumbling complaints.

Meanwhile, Murtagh tenderly, lifted the egg away from its moulded casing, cradling it as he would an infant, and, lacking any other immediate options, placed it in his shirt. He grabbed a pillow and left his cabin, rolling the egg onto the low table Angela had served tea at when they had left Arngor all those weeks ago. Mentally calling to Angela, he settled down on the poop deck to await Arya’s return. Blodhgarm and Glaedr joined him, shielding him from the fierce glares of their dwarven guests. Angela emerged from her cabin below moments later, accompanied by Solembum in his cat form. The herbalist assessed the situation with a keen eye and a smirk, tapping the egg once with the end of a bone knitting needle. Seemingly satisfied with the sharp note it produced, she joined Murtagh on the low seats, nonchalantly humming. Solembum yowled and stalked around the table, staring intently at the egg.

The elf queen soon came into view, accompanied by dwarves Murtagh presumed to be other dock workers; a first shift, perhaps. She bade them to wait in their small skiff, climbing nimbly up the side of the _Aella_ and ignoring entirely the rope that had been thrown for her use. Her jade eyes flashed in the waning sun as she contemplated the egg Murtagh had brought out of his cabin, while her mind probed his gently. Murtagh allowed her entry, watching as she assessed his memory of the egg.

 _It appears this dragon will not wait until it is helpful for us,_ she commented drily to him. _This was the only one to wake?_

_Yes. Who do we have?_

_Every dvergar to work on the port since our arrival._ Murtagh was surprised; most of these dwarves had not set foot on their ship. _I wanted to be thorough,_ Arya added, foreseeing his comment. _Around thirty in total. Normally I would conduct this in a more formal manner, and with the king’s blessing, but I do not want this dragonet to remain in it’s egg if it feels one of these dwarves is it’s Rider. I will convey my apologies to Orik on the way to Du Weldenvarden._ Behind her, the dwarves were scaling the side of the ship with varying degrees of competence. There was more than one breathless curse and splash, but eventually all were assembled in the bow of the _Aella_ with their kin.

Murtagh took a steadying breath and, flanked by Blodhgarm holding Glaedr’s Eldunarí, Angela and cat Solembum, faced them. None of them stood over four feet tall, all were grimfaced, though their attire ranged from fine wool and linen to little better than rags. At least one had stubby knobs across his knuckles.

“Kingkiller.” The overseer knew who he was, but his tone was not overly hostile. Murtagh filed that away in his mind for later contemplation.

“Yes,” He swallowed, “As Rider Arya will have explained to you, this egg became active today, and the only new people the dragon inside has sensed have been the dwarves who have been onboard the _Aella._ We have thus surmised that the dragon senses one of you to be their future Rider.” Murtagh paused; his time in Galbatorix’s court, as painful as it was, had given him a command of language his brother did not possess, despite Eragon’s later refinement. “Please approach the egg, one at a time, and rest your hand on, or indeed near, it. Should the dragon select you, it will hatch, and bond to you.”

The dwarven overseer began his approach. Above him, Murtagh felt Thorn watching intently, while Fírnen corkscrewed lazily a little way above the surface of the river, clearly aiming to join them on the ship. Murtagh held his breath, crossing his hands behind his back to disguise their slight tremble, his heart beating in his mouth.

The first dwarf stepped away, shaking his head. The next too. Five, then ten passed, then five more, filing away in silence. Another two passed without a peep from the egg. Behind Murtagh, the sun began to set.

_Was I wrong?_

He looked to Arya, swallowing like he was trying not to vomit. Her face was inscrutable. The last six dwarves filed past the table, brushing their knuckles over the smooth surface. Nothing. Murtagh felt his head spin slightly, and sank heavily to his chair. He was dimly aware of the dwarves muttering farewells to Arya and vanishing into the oncoming dusk.

_Thorn, I don’t understand…_

_Perhaps it was not one of these dwarves._ The red dragon was equally confused.

 _They are the only ones to come onboard._ Arya sank onto a chair opposite Murtagh, stricken with a silent anguish. Angela and Blodhgarm were likewise mournful, while Glaedr’s Eldunarí was a throbbing carnelian, a testament to the golden dragon’s grief. Above them, Fírnen keened slightly, the haunting sound reverberating around the ship.

“I don’t understand,” Murtagh voiced his earlier thought, his tone desolate.

 _It must be someone else._ The bass rumble of Glaedr’s voice brought Murtagh to his senses. He began to think, really think, wracking his brain for any information on Dwarven culture that he had forgotten.

“Arya, did you bring the one who met us, the one in robes?” He met the Queen’s eyes, elated when she shook her head slowly, her eyes brightening at the realisation. “I think we need to have another talk with the pier-master.” The Riders stood, trusting their companions to return the egg to its chest, and leapt over the side of the _Aella,_ landing with muffled thumps on Hedarth’s wet loading piers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dvergar: Dwarf. 
> 
> Du Weldenvarden: The Guarding Forest.


	12. Cadfael

Chapter 10, Cadfael 

Cadfael stared up at the impossibly tall elven ship that rose out of the morning river mist with trepidation. Vidar the pier-master had not told him the reason the elvish queen had demanded to see him in person, only directed him there with all possible haste. Cadfael, who had completed his Quan-mandated duties of blessing and welcome, had already left Hedarth, rafting back to the Quan’s seat in Tarnag. The frantic demand to return to Hedarth was unwelcome; Cadfael wanted his real bed, to be soothed to sleep surrounded by other initiated Quan members. However, return he did, even taking a turn at the poles himself, swearing quietly, so the experienced raftsmen could catch a few minutes of sleep in the early morning gloom. Their persistence had paid off, and Cadfael’s raft arrived back in Hedarth as the sun began to peek over the horizon. His Quan robes had soaked up river-water during their frenetic pre-dawn travel, inching up the roughspun linen to his knees, souring his mood further; there was no escape from the damp. His blonde hair was braided and kept long, but was slick with river spray, and Cadfael fought the urge to wring it out in distaste. Mercifully, he kept his beard short in a human style, and as such it had avoided the worst of the river’s creeping moisture. 

Unlike most other members of Dûrgrimst Quan, Cadfael’s arms were almost bare of tattoos, with only the dark band of the priesthood around his right wrist and the first of his magical runes on his inner elbow. Sighing, the dwarf hefted his pack and started up the gangplank.

He stepped hesitantly onto the ship, feeling the weight of dozens of elven eyes upon him. A tall elf woman in black leather stepped forward, her soft curls bouncing in the wind.

“Greetings, priest. I am Rider Arya Dröttning. We are honoured to have you aboard. What is your name?” Cadfael gave his name, feeling his heart skip slightly as the Queen began the customary elven greeting. Arya touched her fingers to her lips, while her eyes roved his face. He shifted uncomfortably under the weight of her keen stare. “I apologise for asking you to travel at such short notice, but we have something urgent to discuss with you. Please follow me.”

 _Getting odder and odder, Cadfael._ He followed the Queen up a steep ladder, designed with humans and elves in mind, to a higher deck, where he was greeted by an even more unsettling sight than that down below; the Kingkiller, Red Rider Murtagh Morzansson, a tall elf with midnight black fur, claws and a tail, a glowing gold gem, an attractive but wild looking human woman, and a large, feral looking cat. Arya joined them, and his gaze finally landed on what was in front of them, resting on a large cushion. His eye widened, even as he fought to keep his reaction in check; it was the largest gemstone he had ever seen, glimmering purple and clearly shaped through magical means. Murtagh Morzansson, the Kingkiller, cleared his throat nervously.

“Please sit, Cadfael.” He reluctantly sat, perched tensely on a stool. “We would be grateful if you would, ah, touch this,” Murtagh pushed the gem in his direction. Mystified, Cadfael did as he was bid.

~

Murtagh watched with fascination as the dwarf extended a rough hand to the egg. Cadfael’s knuckles on one hand, he noted, had the strange metal knobs that he had seen on some of the dwarves the day before, and he resolved to ask the dwarf about that when he could.

 _Peep._ The egg shifted. Cadfael pulled his arm back immediately, jerking as if facing a venomous snake.

 _Peep._ Another, much more determined wobble. The blood drained from Cadfael’s face as he considered the egg.

“No…” He whispered with detached horror.

The egg rolled fully off the table and towards him, bumping up against his sandals.

“No.” Cadfael reared up, knocking over the stool as he scrambled backwards.

 _Peep peeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep._ The egg remained where it was, rocking from side to side uncertainly. Along the black veins, Murtagh could see sections of the egg beginning to lift away as the dragonet inside flexed against the shell. Suddenly, it shattered, sending shell fragments skittering across the deck of the _Aella,_ and there the dragonet was.

It was a fierce purple, ranging from a rich plum on its flanks to a shimmering amethyst along the belly and nose, while their wings were a shade so dark as to be close to black. The eyes were the same dark purple, verging on black, as were the claws and spines. It reared up on it’s back legs and beat at the air, wobbling unsteadily on it’s back feet. Cadfael was cowering against the rail of the deck, his pack abandoned, staring at it in horror.

“No!” He turned to flee, but elves clustered around the bottom of the ladder, watching him and the hatchling with concern. The hatchling advanced upon him, tentatively, then more surely, gaining confidence in their footing. Cadfael sank to the deck, blinking with detached horror. The dragon chirruped and leapt heavily into his lap, raising their eyes to Cadfael’s deathly pale face.

“Well I don’t suppose you can go back in your egg now, wee one,” He sighed heavily, then slowly raised his hand to the dragon’s nose. The onlookers held their collective breath as he brushed the damp velvety scales of their snout, releasing it as he screamed harshly at the pain of bonding, with Murtagh and Arya flinching in sympathy. The dwarf stared with dull acceptance at the gedwëy ignasia forming on his palm. Satisfied at realising the bond with Cadfael, the dragon chirruped again, nosing forcefully into his neck and armpits. Murtagh recognised the behaviour from Thorn’s own hatching; the dragonet was ferociously hungry.

“Cadfael.” The dwarf stared at the deck, ignoring both Murtagh and the tiny dragon butting his arm incessantly. “Cadfael!” He slowly raised his head. “Your dragon is hungry, Cadfael. Do you have meat with you?” Cadfael nodded, gesturing limply to his pack. Murtagh took that as invitation, stepping cautiously across the deck as the hatchling continued to thrust their head into Cadfael’s robe. Murtagh reached the pack, pulled out a packet of dried trail meat and tossed it by the dwarf.

“You should feed your dragon, Cadfael. Why don’t you come and sit here?” He pulled a chair towards the table, now free of egg shards, surreptitiously dismissing the elves who had come up to the poop deck to celebrate the hatching of the dragon.

 _Thorn, you and Fírnen need to come back to the ship. It’s urgent._ He added to Blodhgarm and Arya, _Perhaps it would be wise to anchor away from Hedarth for a time, downriver._ The elves agreed, and while Arya penned a hurried letter to the pier-master describing an emergency in vague terms and dispatched it with a runner from the crew, Blodhgarm slowly began to coax the ship away from her berth, ignoring the shouts of displeasure from the piers.

After about an hours’ travel downstream, away from Hedarth, Blodhgarm brought the ship to a sedate standstill. Murtagh suspected Cadfael hadn’t even noticed the port slipping silently away. Arya joined him, slipping her arm through his as she stared at the pair, brow furrowed in concern.

Murtagh laced his fingers through hers. _I think this may be a conversation we should have away from the ship. Only the four of us, Blodhgarm and Glaedr, and them._

 _Do you not trust my crew?_ Arya returned sharply.

 _It is not a question of trust, but one of understanding,_ Murtagh pressed gently. _Of course, I trust these elves, but they will not understand Cadfael’s reluctance._

 _He is correct, Arya svit-kona. This is an issue only another Rider could understand._ Glaedr was as perplexed as Murtagh was, and the Red Rider detected an undercurrent of something else. Anger, perhaps, or possibly envy. Arya nodded in resignation at that, unwilling to argue with Glaedr, even as she disagreed. 

“Cadfael, please follow me,” Fírnen lay alongside the ship, partially submerged in the lazy currents. Arya loaded the unresponsive dwarf into the bosuns chair, sending it out over his back, then leaped across with the hatchling in her grasp. Signalling Murtagh and Blodhgarm to mount Thorn, she lashed Cadfael to the saddle, moving with the slow care of someone trying not to spook a wounded animal.

~

Fírnen matched Thorn’s descent onto a grassy knoll, shaded by an ancient tree. While Thorn razed the area of dead grass and twigs with a swipe of his tail, Fírnen settled his bulk in the noon sun, opening his wings to properly fan himself. He tipped a lazy wink to his wingmate.

 _Selfish,_ Thorn grumbled to everyone present, settling for the shaded tree. If a dragon could look smug, Fírnen did, and if a dragon could look upset, Thorn did. Murtagh and Arya said nothing, having learned long ago that both dragons were insufferable when they competed with each other. Only Glaedr could chastise them, and he did so.

 _Settle down, hatchlings. We must discuss this with Cadfael._ At hearing his name, Cadfael looked uncertainly from Fírnen to Thorn from his place between them, trying to ascertain who had spoken.

Arya settled against Fírnen’s leg, releasing the hatchling into the rough circle created by the two dragons, smiling slightly as they pounced on a twig. Murtagh elected to remain standing, while Blodhgarm sat cross legged against Thorn’s stomach and cupped Glaedr’s Eldunarí in his lap.

 _Cadfael, I am Glaedr. I am within my Eldunarí, the large golden orb Blodhgarm carries._ Murtagh pressed a hand to his head as Glaedr projected a dizzying set of memories at Cadfael from his time as a bodied dragon; Glaedr flying, Glaedr losing his leg, Glaedr listening to Oromis read...

“Oh.” Was the dwarf’s only response, his voice thin and shocked. At his feet, the purple dragon wailed in a reedy tone, trying unsuccessfully to climb the dwarf’s robe to his arms, while the dwarf stared at it with something akin to loathing.

Murtagh cleared his throat. “Cadfael. After your dragon hatched –”

“Not my dragon. Never my dragon.” Cadfael’s voice was quiet, but deadly serious. The hatchling reared back quizzically, letting out a confused and mournful chirrup. Casting about for someone else to provide comfort, the hatchling returned to Arya, fitting itself snugly in Fírnen’s armpit nearest the elf woman. Both Thorn and Fírnen stared unblinkingly at the hatchling, with Thorn kneading leftover scree to powder under his talons.

“As I was saying. After your dragon hatched, you tried to reject it, but you could not. Now you are trying to again, yet you know you cannot. Why?” The dwarf huffed a laugh, but it held a manic edge. He finally raised his head, and his pale eyes were fever-bright in the afternoon sun.

“Do you know what Celbedeil is, Kingkiller? Or Tarnag?” Murtagh shook his head, but the dwarf clearly had not expected a response from him, as he continued, “Your father and the rest of the Forsworn, qarzûl knurlagn, vanyali and jurgen all, swept through the Beors and burned us in our homes. Celbedeil was destroyed by Morzan, Kialandí and Formora; the heart of the dwarves was ripped out, because we, the Quan, could not conduct our rites to the gods. The city of Tarnag suffered too, as did all our cities above ground.” Murtagh felt a creeping horror; his father had deprived the dwarves of their religion.

 _Another reason to hate him,_ Thorn snarled, uncharacteristically savage.

Before Murtagh could reply, Arya did, her sharp emerald eyes flicking to him in a plea to remain silent. “Cadfael, we grieve with you, as then, so now. But you must know that Eragon Shadeslayer – my mate, Murtagh’s brother -- bound the dwarves and Urgals into the Rider pact,” She paused, giving the purple hatchling a boost as it tried to scale Fírnen’s side. “This hatchling chose you, no other dwarf, to be their Rider. Magic more powerful than anything you have known binds the two of you, and you cannot, you will not, reject them.”

“My earliest memory is of my mother being torn apart by a purple dragon, while my father tried to drag me to safety,” Cadfael crossed his arms. “I will not ride any flying beast, but certainly not _that_ beast.” Murtagh felt that pointing out Cadfael had ridden Fírnen to the clearing they now sat in would be unwelcome. Perhaps sensing Cadfael was talking about them, the hatchling slid off Fírnen’s back, gliding gracelessly to the ground near Cadfael. Again, they sought Cadfael’s comfort, and again he rebuffed the dragonet. If Murtagh had ever seen a dragon look so dejected, he could not recall when. They gave a sad peep and returned to Fírnen, nestling under the emerald dragon’s front leg. He bent down and huffed warm air over the hatchling, gathering them to his chest protectively and glaring at Cadfael with slitted eyes.

 _I know the beast of which you speak. They were Kialandí’s dragon._ Glaedr’s voice was sombre. _Cadfael, do you know why the Forsworn’s dragons were as you saw them?_ The dwarf remained silent, sullenly staring at Glaedr, his shoulders tensed as if he were going to flee.

Glaedr continued. _I take it you do not. The Forsworn’s dragons were the subject of a spell, cast by the dragons of Riders and our wild kin alike, called The Banishing of The Names. They no longer deserved to call themselves dragons, and so we stripped them of the right. We took from them their names, their titles, their very minds also, for any creature who resorts to savagery like you describe should themselves be savage. Your dragon will not be like them, for I sense he is loving, and kind, and full of cheer. Your bond will heal you, if you let it, and he will help you heal._

 _He, ebrithil?_ Thorn’s tone was quizzical, echoed by Fírnen and Murtagh.

_Always you have the questions, young ones. Yes, the hatchling is a he. When he grows enough to speak we may know his lineage._

The dwarf glanced away, the muscles in his jaw bunching rhythmically. “I, ah – when will he speak?” Cadfael asked hesitantly.

_Well, he may never, if you do not accept him into your heart and mind fully. A dragon’s earliest lessons come from their Rider. What you see, what you know, he will learn, but if you continue to harbour the rancour you do to dragonkind in general – not without good reason, I grant you – his mind will be stunted._

Cadfael remained unconvinced, staring between Glaedr and the hatchling. Glaedr pressed on; Murtagh held his breath. _Is there not a story among your kind that two of the gods made dragons together, the brothers of fire and air? Your little one is as they made him, as perfect as when those brothers first made dragons._ It seemed to Murtagh that the dwarf was wavering. After what seemed to be a hundred years and barely a minute, the dwarf sighed, the tension bleeding out of him.

“I thought that, maybe, I don’t know, I could rebond it – him – to someone else, or he’d made a mistake. But I can’t, can I? He’s mine, and I’m his,” The dwarf sighed again, “I cannot in good conscience ignore a living being and cause harm like you describe. And sitting here, with the two – excuse me, three – of you, I can see you are not like that monster that destroyed Celbedeil.” The dwarf smiled, the first time Murtagh had seen him do so, and it transformed his craggy face.

 _We cannot change the past, Cadfael-vodhr, but you and this dragon could change the future. Go to him, open your mind to his, and do not push him away._ Glaedr was as solemn as Murtagh had ever heard. As he and Thorn watched Cadfael hesitantly approach the dragonet, he felt Thorn’s suddenly overwhelming emotion. Together, they watched as the tiny dragon left the protection offered by Fírnen’s bulk, helped along by the green dragon pushing the hatchling towards the dwarf, and cautiously greet Cadfael, reminding Murtagh painfully of a skittish cat. The dragonet ended up wrapped tightly about Cadfael’s shoulders, front paws gripping either side of one arm, while his tail twined around his other. He let out a contented peep and a high pitched purr, and immediately went to sleep.

“Ow.” Cadfael muttered. Murtagh cocked his head at the dwarf in lieu of a question. “Sharp claws, tight tail. And he is _very_ hungry.”

_Thorn and Fírnen will hunt for your hatchling until he is able, do not worry Cadfael. In fact, I think they will be going on a hunt soon, is this not so?_

_Why must I share my kills with a greedy hatchling?_ Thorn whined at Glaedr.

 _Because I say so, Thorn. He cannot hunt for himself yet, and until he can, you and Fírnen will be responsible for this, as you would in the wild. Do I make this clear?_ There was an undeniable threat in Glaedr’s voice. It struck Murtagh as slightly comical to see a jewel threaten a dragon.

 _Yes, ebrithil._ Thorn ducked his head, chastised.

“Shall we return to the _Aella?”_ Murtagh asked plaintively; he also wanted to eat, for the evening was drawing in, and while he appreciated Thorn flame searing small kills for him, he didn’t necessarily _enjoy_ them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quan: Dwarvish priest-clan. 
> 
> Gedwëy ignasia: Shining palm. Riders have a silver spiral on their palm once they have bonded to their Dragon. It is also the easier hand to channel magic with, and also glows. 
> 
> Eldunarí: Heart of hearts. Large gem in which dragons can a. store their consciousness in while they still have a body, and as such can communicate over vast distances* and b. where a dragon's consciousness goes after bodily death if it has been disgorged. 
> 
> *It's quantum entanglement but make it MAGIC.


End file.
